


Irresistible Force

by Fyre, rufeepeach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 69,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She held the keys to his cell in her hands. But a curse can change a lot of things, including who is bound and who is freed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So Rufeepeach and I were on a weekend trip to Glasgow. This is the result.

Storybrooke was a quiet, tedious little place, but it suited Alistair Gold as well as anywhere might. He owned sufficient property to be more than comfortable and had enough people in his debt that he never needed to worry about his lifestyle lapsing.

He glanced out of the window as he loosened his silk tie. 

To his surprise, he saw a little yellow beetle shuttle along the road. 

Sometimes, Storybrooke was so quiet at night that he wondered if there was a curfew in place that everyone but him acknowledged.

“Are you coming to bed?”

He caught the flicker of movement in the mirror and looked at her reflection with a smile. “In a moment, love,” he said. “You know I can’t wear my best trousers to bed.”

His wife was sitting upright in the middle of the bed, her arms wrapped around her sheet-covered knees. She knew he was watching her, the little vixen, and shrugged so one of the straps slid over the curve of her shoulder.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said with that warm, teasing tone in her voice that he always loved. She was a lovely little thing, his wife, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why she had chosen to end up with him or why she seemed to adore him just as much as he loved her.

His shirt and trousers were shed in rapid succession, and he saw her lips twitching as he entered the room in his novelty boxer shorts and socks. She always got them for him, and he couldn’t imagine wearing anything plainer, no matter how ridiculous they looked on him.

It was their little secret, she always said, laughing. 

Everyone else could see the stern pawnbroker and landlord; only she got to see the star-spangled underpants. She wasn’t possessive, never that, but they liked to have a secret that was just their own, some little joke that no one else understood, something wholly and only ever theirs.

“Something amusing, sweetheart?” he asked, stone-faced.

“Nothing at all,” she replied, eyes dancing. She pushed back the covers. “Get in here, Starman.”

People thought Mr Gold was early to bed and early to rise because of business or - in lower whispers - because he was getting on in age. It was nothing of the sort. Early to bed meant that he got to spend more times settled in the loving arms of his wife, and that was worth the impression of an old businessman in need of his cocoa.

The boxer shorts ended up on the floor in short order.

The socks, however, remained. 

He was woken the next morning by his wife toeing them off. She always woke as early as he did, and while her toes were busy at his feet, her hands were busy elsewhere. It was, on the whole, one of the better ways to wake up in the morning.

“Morning,” she murmured drowsily, when they lay tangled and sated some time later.

“Well observed,” he replied, kissing her lightly on the tip of the nose. “You’re being especially enthusiastic.”

She brushed her finger along his cheek. “I can’t love my husband?”

“Of course you can,” he said, kissing her again. “As often as you like, as long as you remember I’m no spring chicken.”

She grinned at him. “When the day comes when that excuse is valid, there’s always Viagra,” she said, teasingly squeezing him between her thighs. He snorted and she gave his backside a pinch. “Now, up.”

“Again?” he said, feigning shock. “It doesn’t just jump on command, love.”

She swatted his backside instead and he laughed. “You know what I mean,” she said. “If you want breakfast before we go to work…”

Sometimes, it was tempting just to keep her in bed all day, but she was right, and work was calling. They ate together, and shared a kiss before she shooed him out of the door with his lunch in her hand-painted little lunch tin. 

Despite the more than agreeable start to the day, work was as slow as it always was, with the usual steady trickle of customers coming in and buying something small and useless or large and ugly. None of them looked their landlord in the eye more than they absolutely had to; none of them lingered longer, either.

By the time evening was falling, Gold was more than ready to close up shop and head on home. No one came in once darkness settled in, anyway, and who could blame them? The shop looked more like a dragon’s cave than a welcoming little shop. 

His wife was always making comments about brightening up the place, making it more inviting and less gloomy. Mr Gold liked the gloom. He liked the contrast between his dark work and his bright, happy home. So the wood stayed dark and the windows covered with shelves of his wares, and the whole place remained shadowy and unwelcoming, and he preferred to keep it that way.

He decided to change his pattern, that evening, and go via Granny’s Inn to collect the rent in person, rather an expecting the old bag to actually bother sending it over the following morning. While she usually remembered to send her tarty little granddaughter over, envelope in hand, it didn’t always happen: half the town seemed to assume that a mix of age and wedded bliss would combine to make him soft.

They didn’t realise that he had only hardened as he’d grown older, or that his wife knew this of him and had long since given up any attempt at reform. If anything, she rather liked that he could be a little unforgiving. She rather liked him, more to the point, which was the truly inexplicable part of the whole thing.

The walk to the inn was no chore: Storybrooke was the least exciting town in the country, by Gold’s estimations, but it made for peaceful walking. And much as going home was an appealing prospect, he also liked to savour the quiet and the dark, when he could.

He didn’t mark it, particularly, when he walked toward the Inn and passed a slightly familiar car parked in the parking lot. 

It was on the old side, an original Volkswagen Beetle if he was not mistaken, more than a little worn in places and hardly worth the value of fuelling it, really. But the solid banana yellow paintwork somehow stood out in the streetlight, and he remembered spotting it out of the window the night before, driving past his home on its way into town. It gave him an odd sense of foreboding, this new development in their unchanging state of affairs, but he brushed it aside.

But something was definitely different when he entered the inn’s foyer. He found not only Ruby Lucas and her grandmother, as expected, but also a tall blonde woman in the process of booking a room. The blonde would be the car’s owner, he guessed, and that in itself was a little strange: a new woman with a new car into their same old town.

The conversation ground to an obliging halt when he made his presence known, Ruby eyeing him as warily as she always did as her grandmother caught his eye over the woman’s shoulder.

“What’s the name, dear?” she asked, determined to get the woman’s booking done - and her deposit out of her, no doubt, to make up the rest of his due - before attending to her landlord.

“Swan,” the woman replied, and Gold made sure to remember, feeling the name may be important at some point, “Emma Swan.”

For a moment, just a moment, he felt he might collapse.

It was the briefest of seconds, less than that even, but the room spun and the faces faded and distorted, and suddenly the inn was a ramshackle house in the forest, and Widow Lucas bore a crossbow and Ruby a red cloak and yellow eyes. Suddenly there was magic and the cold dark night in his veins, and his skin shifted from soft, worn pink to green-gold scales and back.

But no one noticed if the old man leaned heavier on his cane for a moment; too busy with the booking, too busy already seeing a monster in his place.

Nothing had changed, nothing at all, all was as it should be and the Saviour had come.

So Rumpelstiltskin smiled, obligingly, and pushed aside the nausea and the returned memories, clamouring for attention in his mind. Here, in this moment, there was a task to be performed, a plan to continue with. Twenty-eight years of sleep he’d had, and now it was time to wake up and face the world. He could fall to pieces and set himself to rights later; for now he had to keep his face straight, his eyes calm.

“Emma,” he smiled, a crocodile’s smile, pushing Alistair Gold to the side as hard as he could. This was Rumpelstiltskin’s work to be done, now, and he had to speak with his own voice. “What a lovely name.”

Emma Swan’s eyes - her mother’s eyes above her father’s cheekbones - widened a little, and she said, “Thanks.”

Small towns, he could almost hear her think, strange folk but of the friendly kind.

The lost princess had no idea, none at all, of what had just happened. None of them did, not the wolf girl or the old woman, no one. No one knew that Rumpelstiltskin’s teeth were bared at Ruby on his way out, behind Alistair Gold’s impassive smile. No one knew that the whole world had shifted.

Once he was once more alone on the street, he had time to think again. He regretted it instantly, but it was too late now. He didn’t know which voice was screaming louder, the ousted Mr Gold or the caged Dark One, but he was not himself as he limped home.

He needed darkness; he thought desperately; his chair, a stiff drink. He needed a quiet night to sort the lives in his head, to reform his old plan, to remember. He was not himself, in this waking hour, and he would need to be in the days ahead.

He let himself into his home with a low sigh of relief, and toed off his shoes, hung up his coat on its peg without a second thought. His socks - hearts tonight, red on white - were bright against the shiny dark wood of the floors. She always kept them so clean, always, clean and bright and fresh.

He was Alistair Gold again for a moment, an automatic moment, backsliding into deep-set routine.

His wife appeared around the door, her smile bright in her beautiful face, blue eyes gleaming. “Oh, good, you’re back!” she hurried to him and embraced him, her arms warm and firm as she pressed against him, and she smelled of roses and washing-up liquid and clean sheets, “I was worried, you’re never late home!”

Belle was hugging him, holding him close, her arms around his neck and her curvy little body pressed full against his.

 _Belle_ , the woman on the other side. The woman he couldn’t touch for love nor money. Always two steps back and one to the side; always out of reach.

In his arms, his hesitant, shaking arms, and held close, her smile against his neck.

“Your dinner’s on the table,” she said, mouth still pressed to his skin as if she would breathe him in, as if she would want to be there, “I can shove it in the oven if it’s gone cold.”

 

__________________________________________________________

 

The walls were vast slabs of stone cut so neatly that not even a breath of wind could squeeze between them. The gates were pronged and sharp and glittered with fairy magic meant to hold a monster. The cage was a quite splendid work of art, but nothing more than that. They believed him a beast, trapped and broken, but that was all arrogance and folly. Rumpelstiltskin knew better, knew them all to be fools, puppets dancing on his many strings.

The cage was a means to an end, a necessity, nothing more. As with each step of his path towards the world without magic, crossroads opened up with each choice he made, but the cage and the supposed vulnerability it brought was the one thing that was fixed in almost each and every path to the casting of his curse.

He had closed his eyes before he set his feet forth and the futures swam before him: a cage in a mine carved by dwarves, a dungeon in a pit scorched by dragons, a cell in a tower so lofty the air was thin and cold, and the one that held him now.

They had bound his eyes to keep the knowledge from him, but he knew it. Deep in the sea-cliffs, where the pounding of the waves could be felt on stormy days, he was contained beneath the ancient fortress of Avonlea.

The fairy magic that had bound him was fading, and he crawled to his feet, circling the walls of the cell. He reached for the magic, and felt as if the air about him was drawn away. Clever, clever, _clever_. A bubble where magic could not be touched. They thought they had him harmless and helpless. Oh, how very delightful.

He could not keep the laughter from bubbling from his throat. Marvellous. How little they all knew, these scurrying, worried, fearful mortals. He whirled around at footfalls, drawing back into the scant shadows, and watching.

The little Prince, of course, come to see his prey, and two others, both clad in the deep blue of the Avonlea nobles. One was a tall man, dark-haired and dark-eyed. The other was half hidden by him, slighter and lost in his shadow. They approached the bars, lit by flaming torches, though stayed out of arm's reach.

"Well, well," Rumpelstiltskin crooned from the darkness. "My hosts, descending from their lofty castle to come and see their humble guest."

"Is it dangerous?" The tall man had his hand on the pommel of his sword.

"The most dangerous creature in all the realms."

Rumpelstiltskin giggled to himself, skipping forward into the striped and dancing light that broke through the bars of his new prison. "I see my reputation precedes me, dearie," he said, hand to his chest and bowing extravagantly.

"A sealed-in reputation," the Shepherd Prince said, glaring at him.

Rumpelstiltskin insinuated himself closer to the bars that crackled with power, dancing his fingertips along the edge of the magic that held the cage in place. "Only for now," he said with grinning  
malevolence. He crooked a finger. "Come closer, children, I would see my jailers."

They did not move immediately, then the slighter figure in the tall man's shadow stepped forward with admirable bravery. Rumpelstiltskin almost crowed with delight. It was a woman, a small, defiant, proud young woman with a brightness to her eyes and a defiance in her expression that just _begged_ to be shattered, broken, scattered on the dirty floor.

Even though the magic pricked and burned at him, he wrapped his hands around the bars and leaned as close as he could. "Aren't you a precious little thing," he crooned. "So young, so tender." His eyes flicked over her, and even without touching on her mind with magic, he could see and taste in the air the unmistakable scent of virtue, of goodness and purity.

The lady in question folded her arms across her chest, watching him intently, but said nothing.

"He must not have your names," the Prince warned them. "If he holds your names..."

"He holds power over us," the woman said, calm. She smiled slightly. "Yes, Rumpelstiltskin. Your reputation does precede you. But so, unfortunately for you, does your name."

He bared his teeth, but whether in grin or growl, he couldn't decide. "You may have my name, dearie, but that's all you have," he purred. "Don't imagine these bars will hold me forever." He pressed his face between them, the magic searing his cheeks. "And when I'm free, I'll have your..." He let his eyes roam her body, then returned his gaze to her face with a nasty smirk, " _name_."

The tall man stepped closer, hand on his sword, swollen up with righteous ire.

The woman held up a hand, watching Rumpelstiltskin. "Words are all you have now, Rumpelstiltskin," she said. "And we have your name. Don't forget that." She inclined her head, then turned her back on him and walked away.

He hissed at her, her dismissiveness, her insolence. No woman had ever bested him, not since his damned wife had betrayed him, and none would begin now.

"I'll have it, dearie!" he called after her, clawing his way up the bars. "Don't doubt that! I'll have it and you'll be mine, to do with what I will!"

She laughed, as if his threat meant nothing, as she and the men withdrew, leaving him in darkness.

Rumpelstiltskin growled, long and low. A bold woman. A strong woman. A woman unafraid of the twisting, snarling beast. But then he grinned, a smile full of teeth and wickedness: but those were always the most interesting to break.

She’d make such an interesting game, wouldn’t she? But she had to know that, of course she did, for all that the pretty little songbird flew freely into the lair of the monster. No woman with such bravery could have attained it without cost. She had to know how easy she would be to snap and twist and break, like a reed caught in the wind.

If she was clever, she would allow her brutish companion to see to any contact necessary, and keep herself cosseted away upstairs, safe from his greedy hands. 

After all, Rumpelstiltskin never could be trusted with delicate things; he was far too enamoured with the shards and shatter they made when they broke.

The Lady of Avonlea would not come again, if she had any sense.

But within an hour of the party’s leaving, there was a shift in the air, a slight warmth that only his over-alert senses would have been able to feel, and a little body coming down the stairs, through the cave mouth, into the cell chamber. She still wore her blue robes, although without the shadows of her protectors he could see that what looked like a man’s cowl and tunic were actually a heavy cloak over a fine velvet dress. Pretty, rich, luxurious clothes for the woman to match.

He couldn’t help but imagine how fine her silks and finery would look, dark with blood and dripping.

He was here by choice, of course, by his own design; it did not stop him from wanting to make his captors suffer and bleed. Such was the nature of the creature inside him: it hated to be chained.

“Aaah,” he sighed, dancing once again close to the bars as the pretty thing stepped into the torchlight. At least they were not so cruel as to leave him alone in total darkness, although firelight against gloomy stone was not much better. “Come to gaze at the monster again, dearie? To get a closer look at his claws?”

“I bring food,” she said, shortly, not playing his game. She placed a tray before the bars and crouched to open a little hatch he had not yet noticed by his feet. She slid the tray through with her own hands and a little force, although no part of her skin passed into the area he could reach. Clever child.

“Oh, yes yes yes!” he trilled, balancing on his toes and sitting on his heels faster than humanly possible, and catching her startled blue eyes in the process. He traced a claw around the rim the little bowl she’d brought, a rough clay thing not worth the food it held, meant for a creature lower than the meanest peasant. He dipped his fingertip into the soup within, and licked it, making a show of his disgust. “Vegetable.”

“There’s something wrong with it?” she asked, coolly, back on her feet again. Sensible child, he thought, knowing not to tarry with monsters on the floor. Standing with dignity though she performed a servant’s task in her finery. Sense did not equal strength; neither did pride.

He snickered, smirked at her through the gloom, “Too much carrot, not enough virgin blood.”

She stared at him a moment, horror warring with something else on her face. Then, to his surprise, she let out a startled little giggle, and shook her head.

“If you don’t eat human food, then leave it,” she said, and that smile spoke of something strong and bright, something like molten gold that would be so easy, so much fun, to reform into something twisted and ugly. “Otherwise, eat up. We don’t mean you to suffer, Rumpelstiltskin,” she added, quietly. “Believe that if nothing else.”

“It’s not my suffering you should worry for, princess,” he sneered, “believe _that_.”

She nodded, once, all trace of the smile gone, and good riddance to it. She turned and left him without a word, and he hid the crude little bowl away in the shadowy corner of his cell before beginning his dinner.

________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Delicious.”

Belle smiled. No. She wasn’t Belle. Not here. Not now. She was Rebecca Gold. She was the woman who was bound to him by a curse. She was a shallow imitation of the resolute woman from the forest, though the smile remained the same. She wasn’t Belle, but she smiled just like her.

“You always say that.”

He always did. Every night for twenty-eight years.

It was their pattern, and he knew what came next. He knew the moment he rose from the table, and helped her with the dishes. It beat down on his mind, the curse, the remembrances of Alistair Gold, the man he had been for nearly three decades.

He knew, as he stood by the window and undid his tie.

He knew, as he glanced at the reflection in the mirror, his wife in their bed.

He knew that in the morning, with the presence of the Saviour, he would be strong enough to resist her, Belle, the only woman who had smiled at him.

But tonight, the demon, the monster, the imp, was lost in the furrow carved by Alistair Gold. He screamed and screamed and fought and struggled, but Alistair Gold smiled back at his wife, and they laughed over his heart-speckled underwear, and he climbed into bed with her.


	2. Chapter 2

Rebecca Gold awoke to the usual silvery sunlight streaming in through the curtains, and sighed happily, as she always did, rolling over and reaching for her husband.

She was startled out of her happy drowsiness by the empty bed beside her: a warm patch told her he’d lain there recently, but the man himself was gone. He never left the bed before kissing her good morning, without having to be chivvied to stop loving his wife and go make breakfast. He was always there when she woke up.

“Alistair?” she said, sitting upright and blearily rubbing sleep from her eyes.

The answer, to her relief, came immediately, “Yes, dear?” 

He was fully dressed when he appeared in the doorway, obviously having returned from the bathroom, but he didn’t come closer. He didn’t come to the bed to kiss her lips. He didn’t even smile at her. He just stood in the doorway, waiting for her to say something.

“You’re up early,” she noted, trying to push down the vague sense of something being profoundly wrong, today. She must have just had bad dreams in the night, she supposed, and the feeling had lingered. That was all.

“Indeed,” he agreed, turning to the mirror to straighten his tie. She’d never seen him wear that darker, plainer shirt before, but it did suit him, better than that gingham ever had.

“Important day at work?” she pressed, desperate to keep the conversation going. He was acting strangely. Short and almost dismissive. She hoped if they kept talking then his mood would dissipate, and her smiling husband would re-emerge.

He did turn to her then, his smile a little wolfish. “Oh I should say so.”

She narrowed her eyes: that smile did funny things to her, and she didn’t know whether the tremor down her spine was fear or desire. Her husband never smiled at her like that, not even in the darkest hours in their bedroom. For her he was all gentle kindness. “Is this something to do with why you were late home last night?” she asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and pulling on her slippers.

“Yes and no,” he replied. He finished straightening his suit, and turned to find her right in front of him, waiting for her good morning kiss. “I-I… um…” He clenched his fist and released it, a curiously nervous gesture. It sometimes felt as if they’d been married forever. There was no reason at all why he should feel uneasy now. “There’s a new woman in town,” he said. "Her name's Emma Swan.”

“So?”

“So I might have business at city hall sometime today, maybe this evening.” He stepped back, out of her reach and toward the door. “I may be late home again.”

She nodded, and still that taut sense of wrongness in her stomach refused to abate.

“Alistair?” she called, and he turned from where he’d started to descend the stairs, and looked up at her. He looked so unhappy, for just a moment, that all she wanted was to haul him back to their bed, back to where it was warm and safe and she could hold any troubles her poor husband had at bay.

“Yes, Becca?”

“You didn’t kiss me good morning.”

He smiled, the first smile all morning that she recognised, and shook his head as he came back up onto the landing to meet her. Their kiss was soft, gentle, as chaste as could be, but at least he had kissed her. She could ignore all the other oddities of the morning, so long as their kisses stayed the same.

Then, she rocked back down onto her heels, and patted his arse with one hand, smiling cheekily at the familiar surprise in his eyes. He never expected her to do that, even though she always did. “Now off with you!” she chided, grinning, “Town won’t run itself.”

“As you wish,” he gave her a mocking little bow, and she giggled as he disappeared down the stairs. If she smiled enough, laughed enough, lingered long enough on the memory of him kissing her as he always had, then she could almost disregard the knot of unease still resting in her gut.

Breakfast was a strange affair in its mundaneness. The toast was perfectly brown. The eggs were golden. The orange juice was freshly squeezed. Everything was just as it should be, except Alistair kept moving around the kitchen, as if he didn't dare stay still. 

He hardly touched his food, and even when she pushed the chair out for him with one foot, he only looked at it, then returned to the counter, refilling his teacup and cradling it between his hands and staring down at the surface.

Rebecca knew better than to pry in her husband's business affairs. If it was something important, he would tell her. She didn't need to ask unnecessary questions, but she left her own toast half-eaten and approached him from behind. She rose up on her toes, slipping her arms around his waist. His whole body was tense as a wire and she kissed the corner of his jaw.

"I'm here, you know," she said.

He was so still and so quiet, then he laughed briefly, patted her hand. "I know," he said. He drained the rest of his cup and set it down on the counter, one fingertip running along the rim. It wasn't one of their better tea sets - they had many - but it was a particular white cup with a blue design and a chip out of the rim. 

"Oh, why did you dig out that old thing?" she said with a laugh, reaching for the cup. "I thought we'd got rid of the damaged ones."

"No," he said, snatching it up again. He cradled it in his hand, turning awkwardly in her embrace. There was an odd, sad little smile playing across his lips. "Call me sentimental, but I'd rather like to keep it."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a very strange man, Mr Gold?" she asked, prodding him playfully in the chest.

His smile reached his eyes for a moment, a flicker of mischief. "If I had a dollar for every time..."

"We would have a much bigger house," she said, relieved by that little glimpse of mirth in him, when he looked so drawn. She rose up on her toes again and kissed his cheek as gently as she could. "I need to get to school."

"Don't terrorise any children," he cautioned.

"And steal your job?" she replied, feigning shock. That earned a chuckle. Brief, cut off shortly, but it was there, and that was enough to know that even when her husband was feeling low, she could make him smile.

He was gone by the time she had changed. He liked doing that, from time to time. His disappearing act. Usually, it was so he could surprise her later, but now, she suspected that this new arrival was the cause. If it was something to do with City Hall, it sounded like a troublemaker had come to Storybrooke.

She arrived at the school as the school buses were rolling in. She had been a teaching assistant at the main school in Storybrooke for years, and she loved it. It wasn't full time, but given her husband's standing in the community, the fact she was working at all came as a surprise to most people. She was well aware that some of the more unpleasant whispers called her Mrs Gold-Digger. On the whole, she knew she could have been called much worse, and if anyone brought it up, she was more than willing to admit that she did indeed dig Gold. 

"Hey, Rebecca!”

She paused, her hand on the handle of the door of the classroom, looking over her shoulder. “I’ve told you before,” she said with a smile. “Call me Becca, Jim.”

Jim Knight, the physical education teacher, grinned at her. “And you’ll have to keep telling me,” he said. “Wait a second before heading in. Turns out little Mr Mills had an adventure and brought home an extra mom.”

Rebecca gaped at him. “He did what?”

“I don’t know the details, but the Sheriff mentioned something to Granny at the Diner,” he said. “She’s in there with Mary Margaret just now.”

She nodded, a little dumbstruck, peeking through the glass pane in the door. Rebecca headed on inside cautiously. Mary Margaret was still organising her desk, even as she spoke to the blonde woman, and Rebecca wondered if this was the Emma Swan Alistair had mentioned that morning.

If she truly was Henry Mills’ birthmother, then that would indeed cause trouble up at city hall. Rebecca could almost have laughed at her own suspicious mind: her husband was always all caught up in the Mayor’s affairs. If Madame Mayor was angered or threatened by Emma Swan’s arrival, then her first port of call would have been Alistair and his resources. Nothing more than that, Rebecca had to hide her grin, everything was fine.

“Hello?” she asked, pleasantly, and the woman turned to greet her.

“Hi,” she said, without a hint of a smile, but she had seemed equally grim-faced talking to Mary Margaret so Rebecca didn’t take offense.

“I’m Rebecca Gold.” She held out her hand, and the other woman took it. “I’m Miss Blanchard’s teaching assistant.”

“Emma Swan,” the woman replied, a little shortly. Then she seemed to pause a moment, as her hand returned to her side, thinking hard. “I think I met your husband last night, right? He’s the landlord where I’m staying.”

“Oh, yes!” Rebecca nodded, the pieces all falling obligingly into place in her head. That was how he’d known about the newcomer: they’d already met! “That’d be my Alistair. He’s very punctual on collections; I hope he wasn’t being a troublesome old git. He’s not great with strangers.”

Emma shook her head, the smallest hint of a smile on her pale, drawn face. “He seemed fine,” she shrugged, “businesslike.” The smile remained, but didn’t reach her eyes. She turned back to Mary Margaret, “Do you mind… I just need to know where to look...”

“Oh, of course! I’ll walk you to the gate, we can talk then.” Mary Margaret looked apologetically to Rebecca, “Do you mind finishing the prep, Becca?” she asked, “I’ll be back in a second.”

Rebecca waved them off and with a thankful smile Mary Margaret led Emma Swan out of the room and down the corridor. Of course they’d not want to discuss Henry’s wellbeing in front of a perfect stranger, she thought ruefully, especially not one whose husband had had a hand in the original adoption.

Not that Rebecca knew any real details about that little affair, of course, she kept herself well out of her husband’s practice unless she was directly involved. But she was fond of the boy: she’d known him, chatted with him, even before he’d moved up into the class she helped to teach, and he was a bright little boy. Too bright, really, for a dull little town like Storybrooke, surrounded by children who did all the required work, thought all the required thoughts, and nothing more.

She hoped having his birthmother in town would make things better for Henry, even if it did keep Alistair occupied and strange for a time.

Mary Margaret returned alone, but Rebecca couldn’t help noticing the absence of the boy in question, and as soon as all heads were down over arithmetic, she nudged Mary Margaret. “Problems on the Western front?” she asked quietly. 

Mary Margaret smiled wanly. “Just don’t leave your credit card lying around where a smart and curious ten year old might find it,” she said. “I don’t think he thought of the repercussions.”

Rebecca hid a smile behind her palm: far, far too bright for anyone’s good, that one. She liked to think that a child of her own would have been a little like that. Then she swallowed that thought down with a gulp of her tea, as she always did.

Aside from Mary Margaret occasionally gazing into nothing, a pensive look on her face, the rest of the morning happened as it always did. They started the class project for the semester, and did times-tables drills.

Monday was one of Rebecca’s half-days, and in the afternoons she did the grocery shopping. She decided on a whim to start with the fruit, this time, instead of the meat counter, and despite their being out of season she grabbed a box of strawberries, and a bag of peaches, on her way past. They very rarely ate fruit, in the Gold house, preferring ice cream for sweets, but she was feeling adventurous. 

She took chicken instead of their usual beef, and added a bottle of chocolate milk as well as the two half-skim ones in the dairy section. They had the money to branch out a little, after all, and if Alistair was going to be out a lot it gave her the space to experiment with their diet a little.

She never visited the frozen section for long, but she was poring over the ice cream selection, choosing between one flavour after another, caught up in her adventurous mood when someone loomed over her.

“You’re looking as if you’ve never seen double-mint choc before,” the newcomer commented, and she glanced up, startled, into the smiling face of Greg Aston.

“I’m usually a vanilla and sauce girl, you know that,” she said, airily, but her eyes were sparkling, “Or you would if you bothered to return my calls!”

“Well someone got a fancy new cellphone at her wedding, didn’t she?” he teased back, before catching her up in a brief, tight hug. She held on for a moment, before pulling back and allowing him to do the same. She might have known him forever, but they were still in public and she was still married, to a man to whom a rumour could bring ruin. She had to be discreet: every day as Mrs Gold reminded her of that.

“Someone still knows the number, Greg,” she reminded him, once they were at a more appropriate distance. She sighed, “You should call me, you know?”

“And I’m sorry, Becks,” he conceded, looking at his feet and back up, a shamed schoolboy for all he was twice her height and weight.

She shook her head, beaming. She could still see the boy she knew when they were ten year olds sharing crayons in Miss Ginger’s kindergarten class, and she’d missed her childhood best friend. She couldn’t stay angry with him: she hadn’t called either, after all. 

“Well, since you’re here now,” she said, a little smile pulling at her lips, “You can reach the top shelves and push the trolley. You do have a good four feet on me, after all.”

“Not my fault your parents must have been dwarves or something,” he grumbled, good-naturedly, and she even managed to reach high enough to whack his shoulder as he came around and took the handle of her shopping cart.

She giggled, and he laughed, and she had to wonder why she hadn’t bothered to call him for so long.

 

____________________________________________

 

The moon was cresting high over the ramparts of the fortress of Avonlea. It was a calm night, calm enough that the waves crashing on the rocks were barely loud enough to be heard from the high chamber.

The shutters creaked and rattled against the wind, behind the thick curtains, and the maid stoked the fire high once more before withdrawing.

Gaston set aside his blade and armour. He did not like the new arrangement, but he understood why Avonlea had been selected as the best site to contain the dangerous beast that was now caged far below his feet. Rumpelstiltskin. The Spinner. The Deal Maker. It was an unwise man who invited the devil into his house, but Gaston had been given little choice.

He was no noble Lord or Knight Errant. He was a soldier who fought well and rose in the ranks, and when he was offered the hand of the lady, he had not refused. The Lady Belle, daughter of the Master of Avonlea, had no other heirs, and she was forthright in her views. She would marry someone she liked or no one at all, and she liked Gaston well enough. After all, she had tipped him in the dirt when she was six. How could a man not be fond of a woman like that?

She was the one who had been called to the meeting of the leaders of the realm. She was the one who brought their proposition back to him. The creature needed to be caged and there had to be someone there with strength of arms and will enough to hold him.

She was the one who took his large hand in her small ones and said, “Gaston, the Ladies Snow and Ella, they are both with child.”

They had long-since stopped weeping for their own child that had never come. It had been hard in the first years, but it was a wound that had slowly healed, leaving only a scar that ached when the winds turned cold. They knew no cause, had been touched by no curse, they simply were to be man and wife, childless, heirless heirs to a Kingdom without a King.

He knew that was why they were the only ones to hold him. No man, no woman, would allow their own child to be brought into the world in a castle that housed the demon imp known for his trade in infants and blood. 

Belle entered the room quietly.

“Did he accept his feeding?”

Her expression was drawn, but she nodded. “He took it, at least,” she said. “Whether he’ll eat, I don’t know.”

Gaston poured them both a measure of wine. “Don’t go back down there,” he said. “He thinks you’re weak, because you’re a woman.”

Belle accepted one of the goblets. “And that’s exactly the reason I have to go,” she said, looking up at him out of those determined blue eyes. “This is my home and he is my prisoner. Don’t imagine he has the power to dictate to me where I will and will not go within my own home.”

Gaston smiled crookedly. “I thought you might say that.”

Belle grimaced. “The servants are also scared stiff of him,” she said. “Even Caleb won’t go down there alone, and I’m not upping all of their salaries just to make them feed him. If I’m the only one in this damned castle who can see he’s clearly locked up, safe and sound, then I’ll be the one to feed him.”

Gaston could only chuckle and wrap an arm around his wife’s waist. She made a little noise, somewhere between vexation and exhaustion, and buried her face in the space beneath his shoulder as he hauled her close.

They didn’t share a bed, not anymore, and they had not lain as man and wife in months. But he still loved her, and she him, in the quiet way that allowed her to turn to him for comfort, and for him to stroke her hair and rock her slowly. She was a dragon tamer, his wife, fearless and strong and tender by turns, but only he could see the strain that being so took on her.

She’d never stop. She’d always be this, the only woman brave enough to go into a monster’s cell and speak with him. So he’d always be here, too, to catch her when she emerged and let her falter a little, break her stride and fall.

There were more important things about a marriage, Gaston had learned, than true love and the making of sons. They had neither of those, they both knew it, but there was something to be said for being simply comfortable with one another. It wasn’t as if either of them had had another choice, anyway.

“Will you go down there again tonight, Belle?” he asked, a little unhappily, because he already knew her answer.

“I have to,” she sighed, resting her cheek against him, her arm coming to wrap around his middle. “No one else will, and I have a feeling a starved and unhappy Dark One would be even more difficult to wrangle than one well-fed and well-kept.”

She shook her head, and disentangled herself from him. “I’m sorry, Gaston,” she said, “I know this isn’t the arrangement you wanted.”

“If it is what Prince James has requested…” he started, but she cut him off with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s not what you would have chosen,” she insisted, softly, and he nodded. She always knew him to well, his little wife. He’d no more be able to lie to her than he would be able to kill the demon resting far beneath their feet. It was his fault, he thought ruefully, for marrying a woman so much brighter than he was.

She gave him a soft smile, and he bowed his head. There were worse things, he thought, than being married to one’s closest friend.

All the same, the words of the monster as they’d left him that morning lingered: the promise to know Belle’s name and to own it, to twist her to his will. They left a bad taste in Gaston’s mouth, fear for her and anger at the creature, and resentment too for the royals who had bound their monster to his home without a second thought, royals who were even now readying for the birth of their children. 

It was an absurd irony, he thought, that they had prayed so long for children and instead received the keeping of a creature who could sound so very childlike.

He hoped that Belle knew what she was doing, visiting with the monster. He hoped she was strong enough of heart and mind. She’d always been stronger than he, of course, but he’d known the depths of his own weakness for years and was hardly a standard to be measured against. But whether she was strong enough to resist whatever game Rumpelstiltskin might play with her was another matter.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

"Do you have to go right away?"

Rebecca held up the bag of shopping that held the frozen goods. "Unfortunately, yes," she said. "I kind of want ice cream, not goop, for dessert." She glanced down at his bag that was made up entirely of a bachelor's dinner, a ready meal and a packet of chips. "You could always come by for feeding some time."

He looked genuinely astonished. "Your husband lets you have men around?"

Rebecca kicked him fondly in the shin. "He's not a monster, no matter what everyone says about him," she said. "He knows we've been friends for a long time. You should come around. I can't have you wasting away on pasta and beans, can I?"

He hesitated. "You might want to check if I'd be welcome first," he said.

Rebecca gave him a look. It was the look he'd first got when he tried to steal her cookie at recess, the look that said she was not taking any of his nonsense. "I'm saying you'd be welcome, and if you're not..." She shrugged. "Alistair has business of his own to attend to. Why can't I make you mine?"

"I'm a proposition now?" His smile was back, the glint in his eyes familiar in its warmth.

"Maybe," she said. She nudged his arm with her own. "Maybe this time, you'll actually remember to call me, if you're interested."

"Interested in dinner with my best friend?" Greg widened his eyes. "My God! How dare you imply such a thing?” 

"You're still an arse," she informed him with a smile. "And my ice cream is still melting."

"I'll consider your kind business proposal," Greg said solemnly. "Don't let me detain your dessert."

Rebecca was still smiling when she got in her car and drove home.


	3. Chapter 3

All the pieces were in place. The Saviour was in position to break the curse. The Queen was wary, but did not truly suspect, not yet. Rumpelstiltskin had his memories back and a brief walk through town had refreshed any that had been less than steady. Old names were returned to familiar faces, and he recalled the contempt with which he held them.

It should have been simple.

He should not have had a wife who thought she loved him.

Rumpelstiltskin feared little. He had cared for even less. He had lost so much in his miserable mortal life that the curse of immortality and all that came with it drove back any sense of fellowship with petty mortals and their foolishness away. Years, decades, centuries, had been the same.

Yet now, he recalled what it was to be afraid.

Cowardice drove him from his wife's bed before she awoke, and brought him back to it, when she was already soft with sleep, too weary to fall into a pattern they had been cursed to follow day after day for nearly three decades.

He knew he had to focus, but he was plagued by the memory of that night when he – not Alistair Gold - looked out from behind his eyes, trapped and watching, as the woman who was once Belle drew the man she considered her husband into her arms.

Secretly, secretly, he wondered if perhaps he had not fought hard enough because just once, he wanted to know what it was to be loved by her. Even if she wasn't seeing him when she looked at Alastair Gold. Even if she didn't know he was no longer the man she believed, the man she loved. Even if she was no longer the woman he knew.

He was Rumpelstiltskin.

He was the terror of the forest.

He was caged like a wild animal at the will of the civilised.

A creature such as that should feel no care nor regret at being incapable of resisting the affections of the woman he was drawn to, the woman he was tied to, and who was bound so willingly. A monster would crow and laugh. A beast would have done it again and again.

Each night when he returned to her - the facade had to be maintained after all - he would sit in the bathroom, sit and breathe, and let the metal of his cane bite and bruise his palm. He would stare at himself in the mirror, looking for the monster he needed to be, but unable to find it.

What had she done to him? Had she made him weak? Had he allowed it?

It was torture to lie beside her at night, but this was Storybrooke. No one's secrets ever went unnoticed, not here, not now. Everyone knew the Golds were affectionate. If anyone believed that was changing, then the Queen would start asking questions. So he lay beside her.

She slept peacefully, and the worst of it was when she rolled over and nestled against him, soft and fragrant and lovely. She curled against him with such trust, as if he truly was a man worthy of her affection and not a creature she had guarded in a cage.

Sleep was a swiftly-forgotten friend.

He dared not sleep for fear of waking to her loving him. No. Not him. Alastair Gold. How could he let her touch him, when each touch was a lie? How could he violate her for his own pleasure, when she believed him to be someone else? When the curse broke, when she knew herself once more, it would be easier to bear her disgust for one night than for many.

He was a monster, and a cruel one at that, but even he knew that he could not look into Rebecca’s loving eyes without seeing Belle screaming in agony behind them.

Regina had played fast and loose, twisting his words, but it was far too late to undo them now.

So he napped in his chair, and slept in the back room at lunchtime, and did not allow himself a wink of rest so long as he had his wife beside him. If he slept he would awake to a kiss, a touch, a soft embrace, and he knew he lacked the strength to resist her if such temptation lay within his grasp.

He knew she’d noticed, too. It was only a few nights since he’d woken up, since her husband had begun to grow distant, but he could see the confusion in her eyes. She didn’t say anything, of course. To do so would be to acknowledge the complete repetition of their last twenty-eight years, and the Curse would not allow that. It was all he could do not to lapse back into that routine, not to be Alistair for her once again and assuage all her fears.

He was glad, at least, that Storybrooke had granted her a job. She enjoyed teaching, side by side with Snow White, although it was made hollow by his memory of her struggles to bear children in their world. Regina had forced a woman who had suffered in childlessness for a decade to spend her life surrounded by other peoples’ children. Another cruelty.

She came home one evening, as late as he, and he had to chuckle as they both tried the door at the same moment. They’d met on the porch, as if they’d co-ordinated entrances, and snickered together as she allowed him to open the door for her.

He gave a little bow as she entered, and she laughed. She leaned close before he could stop her, and as he rose she pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose, and then to his lips.

He froze all over, but she didn’t notice, already dancing away and taking off her coat, smiling and smiling.

It was such a small thing, soft and domestic and normal, that he’d quite forgotten to breathe.

“You’re a little late in,” he remarked, his voice only a little strained, as he stepped in after her. She nodded, smiling a little dreamily, and slipped off her kitten heels. “Long day at school?”

“Hospital visit,” she said, “happens every now and then. Whenever poor Mary Margaret can stand Whale leering at her every time she leans over to talk to a patient.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s hand tightened on his cane, although he tried to remain calm. She was Alistair’s wife, and before him Sir Gaston’s: he had no claim on Rebecca or on Belle. He had no right to be jealous, and passed it off as the husbandly act when he said, “He doesn’t do the same to you, does he, love?”

Rebecca scoffed, “Of course not, he knows the damage you can do with that cane.” She raised an eyebrow at him, smirking as she said, a little more gently, “You also happen to own his apartment.”

“Oh yes,” he agreed, amiably. “That. I find it does tend to ward off lechers eyeing up my wife.”

He’d stepped closer – when had he stepped closer? – and her hands were on his chest. She bit her lip and fiddled with her lapels, eyes on his collarbone before they slid up to meet his. “It does, yes.”

It was a simple sentence, innocent, but spoken like a bedroom whisper. It was unfair to have her finally speak to him like that, to use that warm, dark tone that had once belonged to another man, and know it was not directed truly at him.

If she saw for a moment what he had once been, knew a fraction of their true history, she would not look at him with such soft heat in her eyes.

Her lips brushed his while he was lost in thought, and he kissed her back instinctively, tender warmth turning to passion within moments. She had him backed against the wall before he could think, and oh, her mouth had always been such a problem for him. Wet and hot and still soft, still silk and rose petals even as he plundered her, and all the worse for knowing the secrets, the cleverness, it could also bring to bear.

He was saved only, blessedly, by the fact he had not eaten since he had slipped out and stopped by Granny’s that morning for breakfast. His stomach growled embarrassingly, and her mouth slipped from his with a giggle.

“Come on, sunshine, let’s get you fed.”

They ate soup from a few nights earlier, reheated because she was footsore and he starving. It awed him how they could sit in such companionable silence while they ate. At last, he asked, although he was loathe to use his poor wife in any capacity, even simply for town gossip, “Was Miss Blanchard quite alright today? She seemed distracted when I saw her walk home.”

“I think Whale finally cornered her on that date,” Rebecca told him, a little thoughtfully, “Ruby said they were out last night, although she didn’t do more than shake her head when I asked this morning.” She shook her head. “But Alistair, that’s not even the strange part.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, as if she weren’t recounting Snow White’s first visit to her true love in twenty-eight years, as if it weren’t of vital importance.

“Henry was completely fixated on that John Doe they’ve had in a coma forever, you know, the one the Mayor found last winter?”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yeah, so Mary Margaret said Henry’d linked him to some Prince in the fairy tale book he’s always carrying around, and they were going to read to him from it tonight. Something about proving it wasn’t real.”

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed hard, and hid it by taking a drink. “So where’re you in this tale, darling?”

“She asked me along to corroborate, just in case Henry didn’t believe her when she said nothing happened.”

“You were there? When the strangeness occurred?”

“She read the story Henry told her to,” Rebecca said, her voice low and shaken, and her hand had found its way into his and he couldn’t bear, not now, to break even that innocent contact. There was trying to do right by Belle, and then there were feats of inhuman strength and restraint. “And Alistair, he grabbed her hand! The man hasn’t moved in nine months, and then he hears a fairy tale – supposedly starring him and the woman reading it! – and he grabbed her hand!”

“Did he now?” Rumpelstiltskin mused, “Well, isn’t that interesting?” 

_________________________________________________________________________

 

The Prince rode hard for Avonlea.

The coastal fortress was several days from the palace he shared with Snow, and he was loth to leave her alone for any time, unless it was absolutely necessary, but unfortunately, he had no other choice.

King George had been captured, but his people were making noises that something was afoot. It was all going too neatly. Regina was in exile. George was captured. Nothing was ever that simple.

The man who had once been David, the shepherd boy, knew better than to ignore the murmurs. If you ignore the rattle of pebbles on the cliff, what right did you have to be surprised when the landslide came?

The portcullis was lifted at his approach, his horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles as he rode up into the forecourt of the fortress. There hadn’t been time to send a courier ahead, and it was safer, better, to bring his inquiry by his own hands, rather than fearing it could fall into enemy hands.

It felt like they had been fighting for years. It was hard to remember how to stand back and believe that it was not all about to fall apart.

“Prince James!” Sir Gaston descended the staircase from the main building of the fortress. He looked drawn, thinner than he had been, his eyes shadowed. Not entirely unexpected for the man who was housing the Dark One in his home. He clasped James’s shoulders. “You weren’t expected.”

“I know and I’m sorry for that,” he said as his horse was led away, “but there are matters afoot.”

Gaston nodded. “You would see my Lady?”

James hesitated. “No,” he said. “I need to see your prisoner.”

The taller man’s face went neutral, blank, as if he didn’t want James to see what he was thinking. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“It may not be wise,” James said. “But I would not come if I had any other options.”

Gaston nodded curtly. “This way,” he said abruptly, with a motion of one hand. He did not speak again, as they entered the doorway which led to the dungeon. Gaston took a torch from a bracket on the wall, leading the way down a dark spiral staircase. The walls pressed in on all sides, the staircase hewn from the very rock of the cliffs the castle was built on.

The wind gusted down behind them, making the torch sputter and flare. It was grim place, bleak and dark. James wondered not for the first time if this was what it felt to be closed up in a tomb, descending into the darkest pits.

Their footsteps were the only sound.

“Are there still guards?” he asked quietly when they reached the foot of the stairs. There was a door ahead, and the walls gleamed black and grey, stifling. He wondered how any man could bear it.

Gaston looked at him. His expression was cold, as if personally slighted by James’s question. “There are guards. Two at the doors in the next antechamber at all times. Unless he can bleed out through the walls, your prisoner is going nowhere.”

“I didn’t doubt it,” James said, following the other man.

The guards were as hollow-eyed and drawn as Gaston himself. The burden of the Dark One was a terrible one to bear. James wondered if they should have asked another, but no doubt, anyone else would have suffered just as much by his presence.

“A visitor for the prisoner,” Gaston said. “Is she here?”

“She?” James echoed, startled. “You leave a woman down here?”

Gaston did not turn or even look at him, but his shoulders tensed. “My Lady is the keeper of these lands,” he said. “If you intend to continue criticizing and questioning her decisions…”

“I didn’t mean that,” James said at once. “I just meant… he’s the Dark One.”

“Yes,” Gaston said with a grim weariness. “He is. And you gave him into our charge. My Lady treats her prisoners with kindness, no matter who they are, no matter how everyone else shies from them and refuses to approach them.” 

James looked at him in silence. That was the cause of the hollowness in the Lord of Avonlea and his men. Their Lady was putting herself in the jaws of a monster, all for that monster’s well-being. 

“I understand,” he said quietly. 

After all, Snow would most likely do the same. Hell, she’d probably bring him blankets and hot tea on cold nights and read him stories: she was too kind for her own good. James knew that to watch her do so, spend time willingly to comfort such a monster, and to do so alone, would render him as grim and gaunt as the man beside him.

Gaston drew a breath and led him onwards, pushing open the heavily-barred door that closed off the dungeon occupied. It was a dark and terrible as he remembered, though there were two torches burning now.

There was a chair near the cage that housed Rumpelstiltskin, and the woman seated on it turned to acknowledge them. Unlike her husband and the guards, the Lady of Avonlea looked calm and clear-eyed. 

“Prince James,” she said, rising from the chair.

“Come to see feeding time at the menagerie?” Rumpelstiltskin sneered from within his cage. He was crouched by the bars, but unfolded, pacing this way and that. “Oh, no, no, no. That won’t do.”

The Lady looked over her shoulder at him, then approached James quickly, lowering her voice. “What do you want with him?” she asked.

“I have a question for him.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s laugh was a terrible sound, echoing off the walls. “Questions, questions, questions!” he crowed, kicking over something in the cage. It clattered and rattled. “Pen up the beast and poke it to make it dance.” He leapt suddenly, scrambling up the bars and the magic crackled and snapped around him as the power containing him surged. “I’m not dancing to your tune anymore, little Prince!”

Belle’s expression tensed, and she turned and walked back to the cage.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Don’t?” The monster stared at her, baring his teeth. “The little lamb pleads for the shepherd?”

Whatever she said, too soft for James or Gaston to make out, whatever the monster heard, whatever he saw in her face, he shrank back down from the bars. The Lady of Avonlea continued to look silently into the cage.

“Ask, then, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin snarled. He spread his hands mockingly and bowed. “You have the promise of my continued good behaviour.” He bared his teeth at the Lady. “You have my word.”

James approached the cage, but Belle put out her hand. 

“No closer,” she said quietly. “No one goes closer.”

James could not help but notice she was almost touching the bars, an arm’s length ahead of him. “No closer,” he agreed. 

“Well, then princeling,” Rumpelstiltskin sneered, “ask your shivering little questions, let’s not keep the world waiting.”

James took a deep, shuddering breath, steeling himself. He found himself glancing not to Gaston but to Belle, for reassurance. Her calm nod, her soft little smile, was enough to give him the courage he needed. If she, the dainty little princess of the castle, could be brave in this room then surely a battle-hardened prince should be able to do the same.

“King George,” he began, “has been captured and is now held prisoner. He is stripped of his lands and his wealth, and appears powerless in his cell.”

“And what do y’need me for?” Rumpelstiltskin wrinkled his nose. “Congratulations?”

“I need to know if he will escape, if he will harm me or any of mine ever again.”

“Well he’s locked up,” Rumpelstiltskin said, as if he were a simpleton, “just like me. If he were to escape that’d be a bad sign for all of you, now wouldn’t it?” He gave a cackling sound, bright and broken and madness. Belle stepped forward again, her hand held up as if she would touch him even through the magical barrier, and with one look at her he stopped, settled, stood almost human once again.

What terrible deal had this poor woman struck to make him so docile, to tame him? What irreplaceable part of herself had she been forced to bargain away, in order to keep him from destroying them all?

“That’s not what I asked.” James kept his temper in check, his sword in its scabbard. The monster was contained, and even if he was not, James knew from past experience that swords could not threaten the Dark One.

“Will George cause any more trouble or hardship for any of my people, or my family?” James pressed. He needed an answer before he could go in peace: he’d come too far to back down now.

“Hmmmm.” Rumpelstiltskin was obviously biting back another trilling, sharp remark, and his eyes flicked curiously from James to Belle and back again. As if he, too, were in need of her calm-eyed reassurance. She gave him a somehow warmer smile than she had granted James, and it was only then that Rumpelstiltskin continued, his tone lower, more human and more serious now. “Not in this world. He has done all the damage he can do in this world.”

“Good.” James sighed, relieved. Belle’s eyes were narrowed, suspicious as Rumpelstiltskin grinned at her, but James paid that no heed. He needed not to trifle with technicalities: James’s world was safe from the former King, and that was all he needed to hear.

He turned to leave, with a nod of thanks, and he was at the door, bringing up the rear of their little group with Gaston leading the way, when behind him he heard the Lady speak again.

“ _This_ world, Rumple?” she murmured, “You know that’s not all he asked.”

“Would you discuss metaphysics and magic with the princeling, my Lady?” Rumpelstiltskin almost sounded teasing, and James felt a little like he was intruding by lingering just outside the door, and listening to what passed between the pair.

Belle sighed, and it was almost a laugh. “He asked you a question. You could have told him the truth.”

“I did not _lie_ to him, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin insisted. “But if one does not ask the right questions, he will not receive the right answers. He got the answer he sought, after all: the old King is no longer a threat to the princeling’s lands. You should be thankful!”

“Hmm.” Belle sounded skeptical, but James couldn’t understand why: this was good news, surely? “I’m always wary when you get specific. It means there’s more to the story.”

“There’s always more to the story, princess,” Rumpelstiltskin said, softly. “And this one’s nearing its climax.”

His tone had become low, warm, soft, and James had begun to fear for the poor lady’s safety. Predators always sounded that way right before the kill, purring and soft before the lethal blow. Whatever game the Dark One was playing, he had caught the Lady Belle in his snare, and James shuddered to think what twisted horrors such a monster could create from the open gentleness of Belle’s heart.

He shuddered to think what he would do, how he’d feel, if the Dark One were to take such an interest in his Snow. 

He left with a promise to warn Sir Gaston of his fears. He was sure he’d only be repeating the fears the man already had for his wife, but he’d feel remiss if he didn’t report the threat facing the Lady Belle.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The Prince was awake, which was good news. Rebecca told him as much of the tale as she knew, wondering aloud what it was about Mary Margaret that had made the man wake up. It couldn’t possibly be true, she laughed. After all, if they were creatures in a fairy tale, what would that make them?

“I might be the monster,” he said, stirring milk through his tea. She had given him the chipped cup, and he knew she was teasing him for his sentimentality, but she had no idea, no idea at all, why it meant anything. “The terrible sorcerer who keeps everyone’s souls in jars.”

Rebecca made a face that he was achingly familiar with. “You can try all you like to convince me,” she informed him, rising to take the dishes over to the sink, “but nothing you can say will ever persuade me that you’re not a good man beneath all the grumpiness.”

“I think most people in town would disagree.”

She turned around to look at him, leaning her hip against the counter. “Most people in town don’t know you,” she said simply. She was silent for a moment, then approached him, drawing her fingers softly through his hair and down over the back of his neck. “Do you think I would love you, if you were really a monster?”

Rumpelstiltskin looked down at his tea. “Perhaps,” he said quietly.

Her fingers curled against the back of his neck. “Will you come to bed?”

He wanted to. Gods, he wanted to. “Maybe in a little while,” he demurred, wrapping his hands around the cup. “I have some paperwork to deal with.”

“Oh. All right. If that’s what you need to do.” Rebecca’s hand fell away and he could feel the sadness weighing on her, the feeling that she had somehow done him wrong, and she couldn’t understand why.

He closed his eyes as she walked away. It was hurting her, he knew, but better hurting with inaction, than hurting her in ways that Belle, when she opened her eyes once more, would never ever be able to forgive.


	4. Chapter 4

Alistair had dealt with adoption contracts before.

Rebecca was well aware of this: she’d been around, after all, when Henry Mills was first handed over into the Mayor’s care. There had been late nights, long phone calls, a lot of poring over legal textbooks. Her husband hadn’t been at law school for near twenty years, and even now most of his time was spent as landlord and pawnbroker. He was the only lawyer in Storybrooke, but not many people were in need of one to make it a worthwhile occupation.

The matter was that Ashley Boyd was pregnant, and while most of the town speculated over the paternity and how she’d raise it when the time came, Rebecca knew the truth. Alistair was going to broker the adoption, and it seemed the girl was having second thoughts.

At least, that was what Rebecca gathered from his foul temper when he came home from work. He didn’t seem in the mood to speak, lost in thought and glaring at inoffensive pieces of wallpaper, and every question was answered in a monosyllable.

Rebecca supposed that was fine for the rest of town: they expected quiet, stern, fearsome Mr Gold. But Rebecca was Mrs Gold, his wife, and for her he would explain. She was owed that.

“Why does this matter so much to you?” she asked, as she cleared their plates and set them by the dishwasher, “Ashley Boyd’s adoption, I mean?”

“We made a deal,” Alistair almost growled, a sound she wasn’t used to hearing directed at her, “she needs to honour it.”

“But surely the adoptive family is prepared for the adoption to fall through? It’s an outcome you always prepare them for, right?”

“The family this baby will belong to is neither here nor there,” Alistair snapped, and Rebecca flinched, pressing herself back against the countertops. He sighed, the bite going out of his tone, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you must understand how frustrating this is.”

“The Sheriff can’t help you?”

“You think law enforcement would help me to track down a pregnant woman and relieve her of her child?” Alistair scoffed, and Rebecca nodded, conceding the point. “No, I think not. She’d phrase it as kidnapping or child trafficking, and I’d be painted as the monster.” He sighed and shook his head, “I’m sorry, dearest, but I think I’ll be up a while with this. You go to bed.”

He’d found a way to send her up early every night for the past week. She’d been asleep before he came to bed, and awoke when he had left already for work. She knew that the happy period of marriage, with constant affection, making love night and day and stealing kisses, was not long-lived. But she hadn’t expected it to end so abruptly. It was one thing to be caught up in the Mayor’s business, but another entirely to abandon his wife.

It was as if he didn’t want to share a bed with her at all, anymore. She couldn’t think why, as she pressed a kiss to his lips and climbed the stairs to their bedroom. They hadn’t fought, and nothing much had changed in either of their lives outside of their marriage. They were the same as always, but Alistair was pulling away. She could feel it in her bones, in her skin. He was distant these days, and the rejection bit and stung.

She stayed awake on purpose, reading until midnight when she turned off the light and feigned sleep, and Alistair creaked into bed.

He sighed, low and deep, and she cracked her eyes open just enough to see him gazing down at her, propped on one arm and just… staring. As if she were a thousand miles away, like he wanted to touch her and just couldn’t reach. She couldn’t understand the longing in his gaze; surely he knew that she wouldn’t mind being woken, touched, kissed? She loved him, she had done since their third date when she skidded on the ice and landed in his arms. Her feelings had only deepened since then.

Still feigning sleep, she snuggled in and wrapped both arms around him. He froze all over, stiff and tense, but when she kept her eyes closed he relaxed and even curled one arm around her.

He didn’t relax completely for a long, long time, and Rebecca had to wonder if he was planning on ever sleeping again.

Finally, at 1:38am according to their alarm clock, she looked up and whispered, “Alistair? Are you awake?”

He went tense again, which answered her question, and finally, reluctantly, murmured, “Yes, love.”

“Did… did something happen?” she asked, with a bravery born of exhaustion and anxiety, and still her stomach clenched with nerves at even voicing her fear, “Are we okay?”

“Of course we are, sweetheart,” he said, softly. He sounded as if he had a lump in his throat, but it might just have been the quiet and the dark playing tricks on her.

“I love you,” she told him, and it felt like she hadn’t done so in years. It could only have been this morning when she last said it, surely?

He sighed, slow and deep, “And I you, my darling,” he told her, heavily, after a long silence, “and I you.”

He didn’t say more, but the sincerity of his reply had soothed her. Something was different, she could feel it, but as long as he loved her everything would come right in the end. It had to. 

His hand came from his side to stroke her hair, and that was enough to soothe her into sleep. For the first time in what felt like weeks, she did so with the well-loved sound of her husband’s heart beneath her cheek, and without the niggling fear and doubt eating at her heart.

It was light when she woke to the shrill buzz of the alarm. 

Normally, waking so early on a weekend would result in lazy love-making and finally crawling out of bed at some indecent hour, but it seemed that even that pleasant tradition was being set by the wayside.

She was immediately aware of her husband’s absence, and rolled onto her back with a quiet sigh. It was so unlike him, especially after such quiet intimacy as they had shared, just lying in each other’s arms the night before.

Rebecca got out of bed and made her way down the stairs to the kitchen.

Alistair was still there. 

She could not have been more surprised.

He was dressed, but had his shirt sleeves rolled up and she could see that he was making scrambled eggs just the way she liked them. It wasn’t love-making, but her eyes felt moist with emotion from that simple gesture. She padded across the floor and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. 

A wedge of egg flipped out the pan in his surprise. Rebecca smiled, squeezing him. He was so hard to catch off-guard, because he was such a wonderfully suspicious old grump. 

“Morning,” she murmured.

“Morning, love,” he replied. “Thought I’d make you breakfast.”

“So I see.” She peeked around his arm, her heart sinking. There was only enough for one person in the pan. “You’re not staying?”

She heard him swallow hard, and wondered if he was trying to think of some clever lie to divert her, but when he spoke, it was wearily. “Miss Boyd has taken it into her head to run off with the contract of adoption,” he said. “Her due date is approaching and the child…” He breathed out, running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, love. It wasn’t meant to happen this way.”

“Happen?” Rebecca echoed. “What was…”

Words slowly started slipping into place. He had never mentioned the potential adoptive parents. He had never spoken about them. He only said that the Boyd girl would receive substantial compensation from a couple who wanted a child. She could think of no one else in town, no one who would have come to him.

The only person he had ever spoken about who wanted a child – aside from the Mayor - was currently standing with her arms around him.

“Alistair,” she said slowly. “Who is meant to be adopting this baby?”

He was silent, prodding the eggs around the pan. “It doesn’t matter, if we don’t find her,” he said quietly. He drew out of her embrace, taking the pan over and scraping the eggs out onto two slices of nicely-browned toast.

“Alistair, please,” Rebecca said. Her hands were shaking. 

Surely, he hadn’t gone without asking, without consulting, without thinking she might like to know, and found a baby for them. She wanted a child, of course she did. She always had, and he had held her when she wept when they were told it was unlikely they would ever conceive. The idea of having their own baby, their child, made her feel hot and cold all at once, but not like this, not without any warning at all. 

“I have to go, dearest,” he said, without looking her in the eye. “I’m sorry. Miss Swan will be calling any minute.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and was gone before she could think to stop him.

All she could think was that at the end of the day, he could come in the door with a baby in his arms. Their baby. A baby she had wanted for so long, but she’d not wanted to steal from the arms of an unwilling teenager. She’d wanted months to prepare, to dress the baby’s room, to plan and wait and dream.

She could be a mother by the end of the day.

And with that, she launched herself toward the downstairs bathroom. She only just made it before her stomach heaved and rolled, and she emptied her stomach. 

Her hands shook as she straightened, one pressed to her churning belly and the other to her lips. 

She didn’t know if she was sick with the thought of sudden motherhood, or with the idea of her husband ghoulishly stalking a pregnant teenager, ready to steal her child for his barren wife. Or if, deep down, those ideas both concealed a deeper, guiltier worry: that he’d come home empty-handed, and they’d be childless forever more.

_______________________________________________________

 

“Ah,” Rumpelstiltskin straightened from his crouch on the floor at the familiar presence entering the room. The lady of the castle smelt of sunshine and roses, and something deeper, something hollow like sorrow and salted like tears. She was a contradiction, this little lady whose name was still a secret, but he couldn’t say she was bad company. “You’re back already.”

She took her chair by his cage with a sigh, flopped into it more than sat. She was graceful, when she wished to be. He supposed that the monster warranted no finer graces than the barest minimum, though.

“I grew tired of reading,” she said, a delightful trace of frustration lacing her tone.

“And so you came to stare at the beast, did you?” He danced closer to her, peering through the bars. She was a lovely creature, sprawled negligently in her chair, as if she did not sit bare inches from the terror of the Forest. She was not afraid of him, but he knew that would change. By the time she knew to run, it would be too late.

“I came to sit in relative peace and quiet,” she sighed, brushing one hand to her forehead as if it pained her.

His curiosity was piqued. “Troubles in the world above, princess?” he asked, sneeringly. She hated to be called so, and she knew that telling him to stop would only encourage him further. “Maidservants sobbing, knights bellowing and so forth? The life of a grand lady?”

“In-laws,” she growled, and he was brought up short by her curtness. He could still remember the derision on Milah’s mother’s face at every awkward dinner, her father who could never forget Rumpelstiltskin’s own father’s cowardice, the shame on his name. They had never visited again after his return from the Front: Milah had taken Baelfire to visit as a small child, before she left, but Rumpelstiltskin was never invited to join them.

It made him sickeningly gleeful to know that same fate was being visited upon the lady who was his jailer. He could think of few worse tortures to endure, and he hadn’t had to lift a finger!

“Ohhhh,” he snickered, “not friendly with your handsome husband’s family, then dearie? Do they find you lacking?” He deliberately assessed her, from the top of her glossy curls to the tips of her heeled shoes, and sneered, sarcastically, “Can’t imagine why.”

She visibly shrunk under his mockery, and the demon within him crowed the victory.

“They’d rather I not perform the duties of a knight in chaining the monster,” she said, tiredly, after a long silence and a heavy sigh, and she waved a slim, pale hand. “Never mind that everyone else is too terrified to even enter the room.” She fixed him with a dull look. “You could try not pretending to curse every soldier who comes close.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Their swords offend me.”

“Your mockery offends them. They’re good men, Rumpelstitlskin, they’re-”

“Only following orders? Doing their good work? Protecting the realms?” He shook his head, “I bear no more love for brutes with blades than for dainty ladies who taunt me with false kindness.”

“And I bear no more love for sneering knights’ wives than for jeering demons, but at least you give me a chance for a retort,” she snapped back, and he dramatically danced back into his cage, one hand pressed over his heart.

“My lady, my very heart is warmed by your words,” he said, and she snorted, staring at her lap.

“You only mock because you know I won’t leave,” she said, and that did pierce the heart he would have sworn he lost long ago. “Because I’m not afraid of you, no matter how you threaten, so I’ll keep coming back regardless of your scorn.”

“And what does that say of you, my lady, that that is true?” He lashed out, angry that this slip of a woman could so easily slide beneath his hardened hide. “Are you so incapable of life above that you have to tarry with the monster below, who doesn’t even show you kindness? Or are you simply weak enough to be driven from your own meeting rooms by a woman twice your age and half your rank, and have to resort to a captive audience for companionship? Am I the only one capable of abiding your distinguished company?”

His words hung in silent air as his tirade finished, and her eyes dropped to her lap. He wondered if he’d hurt her, wounded her, broken her at last. Any man or woman alive would be right in standing and leaving, never to return, after such an insult. She could fly out of his cellar and send terrified, silent knights to clean and carry food, and never speak to him again. 

But a small, sad smile had appeared on her lips, and she shook her head. “I can’t give my husband a son,” she whispered, softly, and he had no idea why she would confide that in him but confide she did. “I mean… you tried to steal a woman’s child from her. Bargained it like it was nothing but a bag of coin. But she… my husband’s mother speaks much the same. She wishes for a grandchild and I have failed to provide her with that. She says it is for her line, but I know she wants a pawn to play with, to move to greater power. At least you are honest about your intention.”

“And that is why you’re burdened with a creature in a cage,” he crooned. Ah, the sense it now made. He knew little Snow had the seed of True Love in her belly, and fair Ella too, but this weary-eyed Lady had nothing to be threatened, nothing to be stolen, nothing of value to her kin or her peers. Nothing, he thought, but herself. “Because you have no child to be stolen or harmed by my presence.”

She nodded, slowly, eyes still on her hands, knotting in her lap, “Yes, just so.”

“But you would think not to use a child to gain power, or to secure more lands?” He pressed, knowing that his whole opinion of this woman hinged on that. She was childless, and scorned for it, and was he not once the man shamed for running from battle, and for the sake of his newborn son? Hadn’t he longed and prayed, wished every day of his adult life before Bae was born, for children and family?

He’d never thought to find common ground with the lady of his castle-prison, but her grave eyes said otherwise.

“Why would I tell you that, Rumpelstiltskin?”

His eyes gleamed, a challenge. “Because we made a deal when the princeling came though, princess,” he reminded her, silkily, “Come, come, now, time to settle the score.”

She sighed, threw up her hands, “Fine, although I have no idea why it should matter! In truth, I should like to build a nursery and to hold and love my child, and never have to send them off to do dance to anyone’s tune but their own.”

Rumpelstiltskin stared at her, subsiding back into the shadows. A worthy mother, it seemed, a mother who would have loved her child, but then they all said the same. Milah had claimed to love their child once. Cora claimed to love her daughter. Now, see where they all were. 

“I see,” he murmured, prowling around the inside of the cage. “Fine words for a noble lady, but words are all they are.”

She leaned back against the back of the chair and gazed up at the ceiling. “Don’t imagine that you know me, Rumpelstiltskin,” she said with quiet steel in her voice. There was a bitter scent to the air, the tart salt of tears being forced down. She would not show such emotion to a monster, of course. She was too stubborn for that. 

“I know you hide with a demon rather than your kith and kin, dearie,” he snorted, sidling back towards the bars and tilting his head, watching her. It felt better to prod at the wound, for he had known hundreds of women in his lifetime, and they could all be corrupted, even one who seemed as good and virtuous as this one. “Such loyalty to your blood.”

She rose sharply, so suddenly that the chair rattled backwards, and she stepped up to the cage, so close that he could have wrapped his hands around her throat.

“You know what the Kingdom knows,” she growled. “Don’t imagine I confide some great secret to you.” Her hands were in fists by her side. “That my husband’s kin hold me in contempt is hardly a secret. What family would wish for their son to be married to a barren, wilful shrew?” She shook her head, her voice low and hard with ferocity. “Why do you think the Prince came to me? Why do you think I agreed? I am not going to be a woman who sees a mother suffer for fear for her child.” Her eyes flashed gold by the torchlight. “No parent should ever fear that loss. If I must face a thousand Dark Ones, I would do so, to grant them some little peace.”

She was breathing hard, raggedly, her hands clenching and unclenching in fists by her sides. Rumpelstiltskin stared at her, a tigress in her lair. He had no words, no offence to do her, his own breath stolen by her ferocity. 

His silence seemed to shake her from her ire, and she drew back from the bars.

“Do not imagine you know me,” she said, her voice wearier now. She returned to her chair, sitting down, looking decades older. “Do not even try to pretend you know my mind.”

Rumpelstiltskin sank into a crouch inside the bars, silent for once. She was right, and that was rare. So many mortals were predictable, painfully and pathetically so, but this one, this one was intent on surprising him. She had done from the moment she brought him his first meal, from the moment she laughed quietly at his bitter jests, and now, she put herself before his claws and struck at him with her words.

She truly had no fear of him. She did not question his intentions, because she already knew who and what he was. 

He rocked on his toes. “What would you give,” he murmured, his claws tugging at the hide of his clothing, “if you were to have a child?”

“You speak of the impossible,” she replied quietly, “and even if that were possible, I would not do so at the expense of someone else’s suffering.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “As you said, it’s only words, dearie,” he said, curious now, curious just how much this fierce, stubborn, proud creature would give. “Everyone has a price they would pay for that which they desire most.” 

Her lips twitched subtly. “What do you know of my desires?” she murmured.

He cupped his chin in one hand, watching her. “Enough to know that you would rage at a beast when they were question,” he observed. “A brave woman will have a high price. How high, I wonder.”

She rose, smoothing down her tunic. “You can wonder,” she said, “and I will know.” She raised her hands, brushing them across her cheeks. On any other, the gesture might have been brushing away tears. On her, it seemed she brushed away any trace of distress or grief, and her smile was back in place. “Rest well, Rumpelstiltskin.”

He inclined his head and watched her go. A rare creature that one. Very rare. 

______________________________________________

 

Rebecca felt like she’d been pacing about the house for most of the day, when in truth only an hour or two had passed. The sickness had not abated, and her appetite had not returned. 

Finally, she decided to go for a walk. She could barely force herself to cross the threshold, the urge to hide under blankets and cry, like a child in a storm, almost too much to bear. She made it as far as the park before she saw anyone she knew, and was too wrapped up in her thoughts to realise how awful she looked. Mary Margaret was reading a book on a park bench, and glanced up when Rebecca joined her.

“Are you alright?” she asked, with a little frown of concern.

“Yeah, yeah, just… I don’t know, rough night.” Rebecca ran a hand over her eyes: she was tired, even though she’d slept well the night before. Better than she had in a few weeks, in fact.

“You look like the world’s ending,” Mary Margaret noted. “If you’re sick you shouldn’t be sitting about outside!”

“No, no, I’m fine.” The idea of going back to that cold, empty house to await her fate was too much to bear. She didn’t even know if she wanted Alistair to return home with a baby or without, and the idea of just sitting and waiting terrified her. 

Mary Margaret closed up her book. She was silent for a moment, then looked at Rebecca, her eyes curiously narrowed. “What do you know about your husband and Ashley Boyd?”

“Why?”

“He hired Emma to go after her, something about an adoption? She’s texting me now. They’re at the hospital.”

Emma Swan. For some reason, it seemed entirely natural, typical, for her to be mixed up in this. Alistair had mentioned her a few times already with a gleam of something like anticipation in his eyes, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. But it made sense, knowing what she knew of Emma’s past, that she’d be his employee.

Or, perhaps, his enemy. Rebecca could see Emma getting rather defensive of a young woman in the same state she must have been in, a decade ago.

Did that make Emma her ally or her enemy? The woman who stood between her and the child she longed for, or the woman protecting her from unexpected, unprepared for motherhood?

Mary Margaret’s phone buzzed again, and she checked the message quickly. She turned back to Rebecca with a smile that was a little too bright to be believed.

“Oh, never mind, it’s all settled. Ashley’s keeping the baby!” 

Rebecca’s heart plummeted: no adoption, no baby, no new nursery.

She was happy about that, wasn’t she? Mary Margaret was certainly beaming away for Ashley’s good fortune.

Rebecca couldn’t work out if the other woman’s happiness was genuine. She herself couldn’t feel happy for young Ashley Boyd, who would now have to raise a baby on a shoestring and a prayer. A baby she could have raised herself in a comfortable home, with two steady, loving parents who had wanted a child for so long, who could be stable and supportive and nurturing and…

She stopped herself: the tune was too familiar, and she couldn’t think that way. For all she knew, it was never in the cards at all.

“And Emma apparently owes your husband a favour… he was very insistent, apparently. Hard to compromise with.” Mary Margaret raised an eyebrow and gave Rebecca a knowing look: she had never understood, nor tried to understand, their marriage or how it came to be. But then, not even her closest friends approved of her husband. No one would ever believe her that he was really good man, underneath it all.

He was a good man, wasn’t he?

He’d have made a good father, of that she was certain.

“Excuse me,” she said, and excused herself. She made it all the way back home before she dashed to the bathroom, and was promptly sick once more. She sank down to sit on the tiled floor beside the toilet, buried her face in her hands, and wept.


	5. Chapter 5

Snow White and her precious Prince Charming were playing coy with one another. The Saviour was plucking at Regina's rapidly fraying nerves. The curse was trembling and shivering, closer to broken with each passing day.

And yet, Rumpelstiltskin was not happy.

Rebecca Gold was withdrawn and quiet, as unlike the Belle he had known in the Enchanted forest as could be. He knew the trigger: the Ashley Boyd affair. Her eternal childlessness, a failed adoption that would never have happened, a world of memories that she couldn't quite remember, were smothering her.

She still smiled for him from time to time, but she was pale and sorrowful, and he wanted to curse himself all over for letting her believe, hope, in the vague possibility that she might one day be a mother with his intervention.

They took breakfast together now, if only so he could be sure that she was actually eating something, and sometimes, he allowed himself the indulgence of holding her through the night. Only holding her: nothing more than that. She needed some little comfort in a life cursed and made even more barren and bitter.

He knew he should be turning his gaze outwards.

After all, the Saviour was now the Deputy and the ever-smitten Prince Charming and Snow White were finding their way back to one another. Again. As usual. This time without any intervention from their Dark One Godfather. He wondered, idly, if they would ever realise just how great a part he had played in stoking the fires that forged their relationship into the Truest of Love.

And yet.

"I don't know if I can go, Alistair." Rebecca was looking more and more frail with each passing day. Too many hopes shattered, and so many of them by his own hand. "I- I don't feel like I should be at a celebration. I would just ruin the mood."

He rose from the couch and went to her in the doorway, hesitating before offering her his hands. She took them gratefully, clasping them tightly.

"You don't need to go if you don't want to," he said quietly, "but closing yourself away with just an old monster like me isn't good for you."

She looked up at him, her eyes brighter than bright. "You're not a monster," she said in a whisper.

It was an argument they'd had over and over again.

"Well, a grumpy old man, then," he demurred. "Mr Nolan's return to life is a reason to celebrate, and I think they would appreciate having as many friends around as possible. I think Kathryn would just appreciate having someone there for her sake."

Rebecca looked down at their hands. "It must be terrible," she said quietly, "to lose the man you love."

He knew that she - Rebecca Gold - was not generalising.

"I love you." He was not a kind man, and there was little he could to make things better for her now, but he knew that she needed to hear those words. Belle - Rebecca - needed whatever strength he could give her, even if the shattering of the curse would render it moot. She needed it now, and he could give it, and when the time came, he could lie and say it was nothing more than air and words.

She raised her eyes to his. "Come with me?" she asked in a small voice.

"To the party?" He couldn't help laughing at the thought. Rumpelstiltskin attending the party of the man who helped to cage him and lock him in an impenetrable dungeon after said imp had helped reunite him with his true love more than once. "I hardly think they want the devil at the feast."

She pulled one hand free and swatted him sharply on the arm. "Don't say things like that," she said with some of her old fire. "That doesn't help!"

He couldn't help chuckling ruefully. "You have to admit there's a poetry to it," he said. "I, the grumpy old devil; you, the sweet-eyed angel."

Her lips twitched, but she stuck out her tongue. "Now, you're just being facetious," she said. She stepped closer to him, touching his chest, the fingers of her other hand wound through his. "Please? I don't feel ready to go out alone."

He looked down at her, wondering if she realised how ironic it was that she begged him to be her security when she had been his guard for so many long months in another world. "Would it make you happy?" he asked quietly.

Rebecca nodded.

His fingertips ghosted along her cheek. "Then I will go with you," he agreed quietly, but added. "But if anyone irritates me, I can't promise I will remain civilised."

Her smile came, bright and lovely. "That's all I ask."

Before he could think to stop her, she leaned up and pressed her lips to his. It was a soft kiss, warm and slow and almost chaste, and if he didn’t know her better, or were she more her old self, he’d think it was almost a challenge. Daring him to make good on his promise; to prove that he could act on love as much as speak it.

It was cruel, he thought, to have spent so long wishing for this from behind bars, and now having to push it aside.

Rumpelstiltskin was never strong, never brave, not like her. He kissed her back though he knew every slide of his lips against hers was another crime to add to his growing list, another sin he’d never be able to atone for. He supposed it was better, if they were to go and stand before the whole town as man and wife, that she should have light in her eyes and colour in her cheeks. He supposed that for the sake of the façade, for keeping Regina off the scent, this was necessary.

It was probably not as necessary to allow her to coax open his lips, or taste the little sweet edge to her mouth that he’d been without for so long. She made a pleased little noise, warmer and happier than he’d heard since before the Ashley Boyd affair, and when they parted, she sighed happily.

“I missed that,” she whispered, and he nodded, unable to do more. He was almost paralyzed for a moment by guilt. He just kept failing her.

Belle, the real Belle, was a woman who thrived on affection, needed it like a flower needs sunshine, and had had to learn, slowly, to live without so much of it. Such was the life of a barren woman in a passionless marriage, for all he had seen the friendship and loyalty between them, for all that he had envied it. 

Theirs had been a happy marriage, even though it was without anything close to romance or true love. At least Gaston had been able to keep from hurting her, had kept her standing and given her the love she needed, if not the love she wanted.

He’d thought, perhaps, that the curse changed that as it had so much else, but Rebecca had not lost that need for affection. Indeed, she’d just lived for twenty-eight years with a constant stream of kisses and hugs and long nights of lovemaking. Alistair Gold had been the most attentive and devoted husband a woman could wish for, and Rumpelstiltskin regretted, for her sake, his loss.

But Belle would never have chosen him to fill that ache, no matter how much time she spent with him, or however close he had felt they had become. She would loathe him even more, if he used Rebecca’s loneliness to justify violating her.

“Come on,” he said, after a moment, “let’s get ourselves ready, and we’ll go make nice with the common people.”

She snickered and shook her head. She wrapped her arms around his torso, briefly, and pressed her forehead to his shoulder. He held her close for just a moment, before releasing her. He’d already allowed them far too much today, and he didn’t know how much more he could take without breaking his promise to himself not to touch her further.

It was worse to know she’d welcome it. A woman screaming refusals would have been far, far easier to leave alone than one practically begging to be touched.

She moved away slowly, and went up to their bedroom ahead of him. She was already dressed, and closeted herself away in their bathroom to apply her makeup while he found a slightly less threatening shade of navy blue shirt, and a tie that was silver to lighten the lot. It would not make sense to appear in a public gathering looking more himself than not. It would not do to allow anyone, even his wife, to suspect that Alistair Gold was no more than a memory.

The party was already in full swing when they arrived, and Kathryn Nolan’s face lit up when she saw Rebecca. The two women were friends, although Rumpelstiltskin never knew that until the Savior arrived they had actually never spoken, and he approved of the pairing. It was good for Rebecca to have a thoughtful, sensible friend; the pair of them might keep each other grounded.

Midas’ daughter had been one of the more intelligent princesses, to his recollection. She and Belle would have got along well; he wasn’t sure, however, if they had actually ever met at all.

They’d need one another, in the coming months. Kathryn’s husband would be unfaithful, Mary Margaret Blanchard would rip this burgeoning little family apart, and Rebecca would lose her husband. Had already lost her husband, he corrected. It would serve her best, he thought, if she were to act like a widow from now on.

She wouldn’t: she was still shooting secret smiles that he couldn’t help but return across the room, even as he found himself stood with the Savior and her son by the stairs.

“What’re you doing here?” Emma asked baldly, the moment David had been moved back into the room with his wife and Henry had scurried away. The lad was terrified of him, which was a little sad but not unexpected. 

“My wife is a friend of the hostess,” he replied, coolly, “I was promised an easier life if I played chaperone.”

“Your wife?” Emma asked, and though Gold knew that she and Rebecca had met he pointed her out, where she stood chatting with Kathryn by the kitchen door.

“You two have met, I hear?” he asked, and Emma’s face brightened with recognition.

“Oh, yeah, I remember now. Sorry, I only met her my second day in town and that was a hell of a day.”

“I quite understand; she’s an unassuming little thing.”

“I still don’t get why she’d want you here,” Emma continued, blunt as ever. She had all the tact of her father, and the sharp wit to match. “I mean, after the Ashley thing. I’d have thought you’d lay low for a while.”

“The town’s still home, Miss Swan,” he replied, “and my wife’s still my wife. If she wants me here, I’m here.”

“Huh,” was all Emma said further on the matter, before they were interrupted.

Greg Aston had come into the hallway, looking both oversized and awkward, his hands in his pockets. He probably now believed himself an old friend of David Nolan’s, although Rumpelstiltskin knew the name would have meant nothing to him a month ago. “Hey, Gold?”

“Yes, Mr Aston?” he raised an eyebrow, enjoying the ability to unsettle, even frighten, the man who had been his captor. The man who’d had Belle’s affections, her trust and loyalty, and would have them again. He’d never been so envious of a man before then, not since he’d become the Dark One, and he’d not been kind as a result, for all his fondness for the man’s wife. Now his wife, although with a different name and story, and not for much longer.

“Have you, I mean, did Becca come with you tonight?”

“Indeed she did, you find me bound and dragged by her whim,” he said, and then took pity on the poor man, for Rebecca’s sake. “She’s over there, I’m sure she’d value the company.”

Greg smiled, and nodded his thanks before heading over. It was sweet how Rebecca’s face lit up to see him, the trust between the pair of them remaining even after so many years apart. 

“Old friend?” Emma asked, curiously, and Rumpelstiltskin scowled. He did not want to be a friend to Snow White’s daughter, nor did he want her pity while his wife closely embraced another man, a younger man with less darkness in his soul and stone around his heart. He’d have to watch this many times over, he knew, if he wanted his erstwhile wife to know any peace while he helped Emma to break the curse. It didn’t mean he had to gossip about it or be pitied.

“What is it to you, Miss Swan?”

Emma narrowed her eyes at him, “You’re lucky I’m even speaking to you, Gold, after the stunt you pulled.”

“And while I appreciate such great fortune,” he replied, testily, “I’m not sure what business my wife’s friendships are of yours.”

She just sighed, a curiously juvenile sound, and went off in search of her son. Rumpelstiltskin kept his eye on his wife, surreptitiously, and noted the brightness in her eyes, the warmth of her smile as she talked with her oldest friend. There was a reason why he’d never managed to spread doubts and cracks in that marriage, he thought, a reason they could withstand even the Dark One lurking beneath their castle walls. 

He was glad someone was making Rebecca smile; he hoped it would make it hurt less when he didn’t love her like he once did, didn’t kiss her and take her to bed. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her. He could have laughed at the irony of such a feeling, considering how deeply he’d once felt the very opposite.

______________________________________________________________

 

Gaston turned sharply when the door creaked open. He had given orders for silence, and to be intruded upon only in the direst need. Belle stirred with a low groan, and he touched his hand to her brow, looking down at her with concern.

Too many days and nights spent dealing with their captive had worn her down. Though she dressed warmly, ate enough, and even wrapped herself in thick cloaks, she had taken ill. He was sure Rumpelstiltskin gave off some malignant power to weaken her so much. Prince James had spoken to him, weeks ago, of his concern for Belle’s well-being, of what she must have done to hold the beast passive, and now, Gaston wondered if perhaps he was right.

A fever had taken hold of her, and the alchemists had brewed up remedies to dose her with. It was meant to help, they claimed, but most often, she seemed to rest easier when she was warmed and fed some mild broth. He often slept at her side, holding her in his arms and warming her shivering body with his own, though she barely recognised him.

At the door, one of the guards cleared their throat.

“Sir Gaston.”

Gaston closed his eyes, drawing a breath. He lacked her strength, but he could pretend he had enough to act while she lay weak and frail. He rose from the bed and went to the door, and looked at the guard in expectation. “Is he being troublesome?”

The guard nodded warily. “Sir, he won’t stop screaming.”

Gaston ran his hands over his face. There were maids enough to sit with his wife, but that didn’t change the fact that he didn’t want to leave her, especially not to go and supervise the feeding of a temperamental monster. All the same, if the Dark One was capable of doing any damage – to himself or to others – it was better not to risk finding out about it.

He summoned maids to sit with Belle, then pulled on his cloak and made his way down through the castle and into the dungeons. Even from the top of the staircase, he could hear the howling. The guards were clustered at the foot of the staircase, rather than venturing nearer the chamber that held their captive.

Belle did this, he knew. She did this each and every day. She said there was no cause for fear, so he would show none, even if his spine felt like it had turned to ice with terror. The screams were blood-curdling, the sound of a creature in torment, punctuated by cracks of hysterical laughter that echoed around the walls. 

He had done this, Gaston thought, fear giving way to anger. Because of the beast in the cell, his wife was sick, his people were terrorised, and he had no doubt the rest of the Kingdoms were thriving. He straightened his back and strode towards the door, throwing it wide and storming into the cell.

The sudden silence was almost worse than the screaming.

What few comforts Belle had provided for the demon, they had been cast aside. Ragged shreds of blankets hung like feeble banners on the bars of the cage. Dishes lay in pieces. What must have been his latest meal was scattered across the floor. A torch lay there too, sputtering and glowing dully: a guard must have dropped it in their flight.

Gaston’s heart leapt to his throat. The cage looked empty.

“Rumpelstiltskin!” he called out, his voice hoarse and raw. “Show yourself.”

There was a low hiss from the darkest depths of the cage. “We’re not entertaining today, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin growled, a deep and unpleasant sound. “No food but from her hand. No requests but from her lips.” He unfolded like a dragon rising from its slumber, spreading his arms and baring his teeth. “I don’t want you.”

Gaston felt as if he had swallowed nails. “Well you’ll just have to deal with me today,” he said, striding closer to the cage. “She is not at your beck and call, and screaming like a deranged child isn’t about to change that.”

The monster’s hands hovered close to the bars. His lips peeled back from his hideous teeth. “I think you’re lying, little soldier,” he crooned. “Tell me, little soldier. Does it make you feel a man to take her place?” He crudely grabbed at the front of his breeches. “Does it make you think you could plant one in her? A wriggling little soldierboy?”

Gaston almost reached through the bars. He wanted to grab the damned demon and beat him senseless for whatever he had done, for his poisonous words, for his presence. But he couldn’t risk that, not knowing what Rumpelstiltskin was capable of. He tried to remember how calm Belle remained, tried to borrow some little of her strength. 

“Speak all the filth you want,” he said, keeping the tremor of rage from his voice with the utmost of will. “My Lady is otherwise occupied. Her priority is our Kingdom, not some ragged little monster who was foolish enough to get himself caught.”

The imp giggled, propping his chin on one of the sharpened bars. “Is that why she spends all her days with me, little soldier?” He bit down on his tongue, as if it had spoken out of turn, and hissed around a repellent grin. “Ask her what we do all those long, long hours.”

It was so tempting to strike him, to knock him low, but Gaston knew that was what the imp wanted. So he smile, thin, sharp, and controlled. “I know,” he said. He leaned closer, “Because she is my wife and we talk to one another. I know exactly why she comes here and why she tolerates you, and nothing you can insinuate will change the fact that you are a beast and she sees nothing more than that in you.”

Rumpelstiltskin stared back at him out of his strange, wide eyes.

Abruptly, he leapt back from the bars, and the shriek he unleashed was like something from the bowels of hell. Shards of shattered dishes were hurled through the bars but Gaston stood his ground, watching as the damned, pitiful, trapped creature thrashed and foamed and snarled uselessly against his captivity, against that which he could not control.

For a being who had once been known as the most powerful in all the realms, it must have been a shock to be so suddenly reminded that he was not without a weakness.

“I will have her,” the demon snarled suddenly, looking up from the floor of the cage. By the flickering light of the torch, he looked even more monstrous than he had before, his eyes flashing, his scaled skin glittering. “Your little wife. I will have her and I will do with her what I will, and you will stand and watch and be able to do nothing to stop me.”

“Empty threats,” Gaston said, though his voice came out hoarsely. “This is your prison, demon, and this is where you will remain.”

Rumpelstiltskin crawled into a crouch, his bony fingers splaying on the floor of his cell, his face concealed by shadows cast by the bars and his tangled hair. “I make you a promise, soldier boy,” he hissed, his claws scraping at the stone. “I will have her name. I will have it and I will get what I want.”

“As if you haven’t already done enough,” Gaston snarled back. “If you won’t eat without her, then you can go ahead and starve.” 

He stormed back out the room, slamming the doors behind him, and did not stop until he broke free from the staircase and into the courtyard. He could already hear the howling begin again, and he sagged against the wall, startled by how much he was trembling.

He returned to his wife on legs that could barely hold him, stumbling down corridors. A part of him, irrational and primitive and terrified, was convinced that Rumpelstiltskin would break free of his cage, magic or no magic, fairy or no fairy, and come for him, for them, for her. He felt that terrible presence stalk and chase him down the corridors of his own castle, until he was half running back to the safety of his bedchamber.

“Gaston?” Belle murmured, when he calmed his shaking limbs and crawled into bed beside her.

“Yes, dearest, I’m here,” he replied, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close. He was relieved, so relieved, that for now she knew who he was. He always felt like a part of himself, an important part, the strong and thoughtful part, was somehow missing when Belle was not present. 

He couldn’t afford to lose that too, not when his passion and his joy were already gone from him. Strength and kindness, honour and intelligence, those he had learned well from his wife. She was the best part of him, if only because he’d lost whatever good he’d been before their marriage long ago. He dared not think on that, not even here in the silent darkness of his own bed, with his understanding friend-wife curled beside him, shaking with a sickness he had allowed her to contract. 

He did not want to think, even here, of the battlefield tavern so far from these castle walls, where he’d bought his mead with his heart and his soul. He blamed Rumpelstiltskin for his loss of equilibrium, for making him scared and vulnerable to allow such memories to seep through. Bad memories, and dangerous too: what else could memories of war be?

His wife was small, dark-haired and blue eyed, a Lady born and bred with a sharper mind than any he’d met before, and a calm, patient strength to match. She was the only woman whose face he should see now, when he closed his eyes. 

But his fear had made him weak, and now he was swept up in a riot of red hair and hazel eyes, carefree laughter and the kind of innocent wickedness his grave-eyed wife had never possessed. The face of a woman – some Knight’s by-blow – long since vanished, and had never once been unhappy with her lot in life. A woman who had made a little haven for the men on her tavern floor, where there was no fighting and no thought, only laughter and drink.

But the war ended over half a decade ago, and that old, familiar tavern was now half a world away, and the life Gaston had dreamed of as a young soldier with his barmaid sweetheart even further.

Now he was a tired Lord, with an ailing wife who was his closest friend and nothing more, an empty nursery, and sole charge of a screaming monster rotting in his basement. 

It was with that grim truth held in his mind, and his trembling wife held in his arms, that Gaston finally slipped into sleep.

____________________________________________

Rumpelstiltskin could see Rebecca darting increasingly frequent glances his way, as if she wanted him to come and join them, as if she felt guilty for abandoning him at a party she had dragged him to.

He knew if he went over there, then he’d be cruel to the former lord – he had not forgotten his time in captivity, after all, and he and Gaston had not been friendly in the slightest – and he’d put his wife in an untenable position. He wanted her to have friends, and more than that: she needed someone who, without guilt or sin, could be with her in a way Rumpelstiltskin never could. If Belle woke up in Gaston’s arms, then she would not feel angry or violated. They had been married before the curse, after all. Of all the men in this room, he was her husband, not Rumpelstiltskin.

He caught Kathryn as she walked by and said, “Would you make sure my wife gets home alright? I’m getting a headache.”

“Of course, Mr Gold, but don’t you want to tell her yourself?” she frowned, puzzled. She of all people, Rebecca’s friend, knew how close they were as a couple.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” he said, and it wasn’t even a lie. “Goodnight, Mrs Nolan.”

“Goodnight,” she replied, still confused, and Rumpelstiltskin left Rebecca with her hand on Greg Aston’s arm, trying to ignore the overwhelming jealousy that made him want to howl and scream as he had before. 

It was even worse, knowing that if he stormed in and made a territorial display, hauled her home, she wouldn’t mind. In fact, she’d welcome it, welcome being taken and claimed and wanted. 

That was exactly why he walked away, the tap of his cane heavy and dull on the cold ground as he limped home. He noticed Mary Margaret and David having a conversation by the pavement as he passed them, and let them be. Let the bloody blasted curse break as fast as it could, and good riddance: he didn’t know how much more of this he could withstand before he would break.

Irony: his life was full of it. Always had been, always would be. Intent was – as ever – meaningless.


	6. Chapter 6

“Are you sure your husband-”

Rebecca dumped a casserole dish and a big blanket into Greg’s arms and closed his apartment door behind her. “For the last time, Greg, yes. He’s fine with it.”

She knew she must look cagey, because Greg eyed her suspiciously over the blanket that piled up to his chin. “He does know, right?”

She sighed. “I imagine he knows now that I’m not at home. Let him call my cell if he wants more information.” She waved an irritated hand at the air. “Let’s see how long it takes him to give a damn.”

“Wow, someone’s in a bad mood,” Greg commented, dumping the blanket on the couch next to where Rebecca had flung herself and placing the dinner she’d brought neatly on the countertop. “Trouble in paradise, is it?”

She smacked his arm as he came around the arm of the sofa. “Cheek!”

He laughed. “Well you’ve come to grouse on another man’s sofa,” he said, reasonably, taking a seat beside her. “Stands to reason something’s not right. Want to eat Ben and Jerry’s and talk about your feelings?” He mock-pouted and drew an unwilling giggle out of Rebecca.

“No. I don’t want to talk about it at all.”

“Then you need to go home,” he sighed, and made to rise to get the door.

“What, why?”

“Because your husband is a nightmare with a cane, and I’m not crossing that without a good reason. You can go play daredevil with someone who actually has a death wish.”

She shook her head, “he wouldn’t do anything.”

“If he thought something had happened to you?” Greg looked at her, as seriously as he ever had. “Becks he might be the worst man in Storybrooke but he’d burn down the damn town if someone so much as pissed you off.”

“He’s pissed me off,” she said, a little childishly. “Let him burn something.”

“What’d he do?”

“He left me at Kathryn’s without a word and went home. Something about a headache,” she said, aware of how sulky she sounded.“He was already fast asleep on the sofa with some papers all around by the time I got back, and didn’t even wake up with all the lights on.” She sprawled back against the couch.“I swear to God that man can even sleep with an ulterior motive!”

“That’s a bit of a dick move,” Greg agreed, “Doesn’t warrant a runaway wife and a missing casserole. You’d deny a man his dinner?”

“He’s gone really cold lately, Greg,” she said, and she could hear her own voice getting smaller and quieter, more pitiful with every word, “Like he doesn’t even care if I’m right in front of him. And he won’t even tell me why.”

She could feel tears start to roll down her burning cheeks, and soon she was sobbing into her cupped palms. Greg gathered her into his arms without another word, rocking her like a child and holding her close. She felt like she cried for a long time like that, held by her best friend in the world and shaking, unable to stop for even a moment.

“Oh god,” she said, once she could form words again, “sorry, I’m such a mess, I should go, I’m sorry-”

He just held on tighter, keeping her close. “You’re safe here, Becks,” he said, softly, “you’re safe, I’ve got you.”

She looked up at him, knowing she looked ridiculous, blotchy and tearful and half-mad with her crying fit. “I just… I love him, Greg. How bloody stupid is that?”

He shook his head, “You fell in love and married someone who’s a dickhead to everyone else in town but is crazy for you.”

“Was,” she said, small and pathetic, “he was crazy for me. But he hasn’t, I mean, we haven’t… not for months. One day everything just changed and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

She was all cried out, she thought, thankfully. She just sniffled when Greg hauled her even closer, and pressed a brotherly kiss to her forehead.

“You did nothing wrong. That’s one hundred per-cent guaranteed. Come on, Becks, in your marriage who’s the stupid bastard and who’s the brains of the outfit?”

“We’ve never been distant like this before,” she said, shakily, “never.”

“Then let him worry,” Greg said, “and let’s eat casserole and watch a movie and pretend your husband’s not a massive asshole, okay?”

“Deal.”

It felt like such a weight was lifted from her shoulders, just sharing her worries, and she knew for a fact that Greg would never betray a confidence, as much as he loathed her husband. They would never see eye-to-eye, not with Gold’s history, but he trusted her judgement and knew she saw something in Gold that no one else did. 

They polished off the casserole, shared a tub of ice cream, and watched the stupidest movies that Greg had in his collection. Leaning against him, her head on his shoulder, she felt like she could relax for at least a little while, forget about the fact her marriage felt like it was falling apart.

She must have dozed off, at least for a little while, and only stirred when Greg draped the blanket over her.

“I should go,” she murmured, struggling to push herself up on her elbow.

“You had too much wine,” he informed her. “You should stay put. I rang that arsehole of yours and told him you’re staying here tonight.”

Rebecca looked up at him, startled. “He was okay with that?” There was an evasive look on Greg’s face. “Greg, what did he say?”

“I asked him if he could come and pick you up,” he said uncomfortably. “He said he was…” 

“Busy,” Rebecca murmured. She lay back down on the sofa. All the pleasure of the evening felt like it was draining away. 

If he wasn’t dealing with the Mayor’s problems, he was haranguing Emma Swan, and if he wasn’t doing that, he was ignoring her almost completely. She wished she could say it was her imagination, but it wasn’t. He was pushing her back. He’d started wearing plain socks and underwear. He wasn’t the same man anymore.

“Becca?” Greg murmured.

Sometimes, the most immature response was the best. She pulled the blanket over her head and held it there, wrapping herself in stuffy darkness. Greg sighed, petting her shoulder comfortingly through it.

“You can take the bed, if you want,” he said quietly.

She peeped out cautiously. “You can’t sleep on the sofa,” she said. “You’d have to fold in half, you giant freak.”

His lips twitched. “So midget on the couch, then,” he said. He leaned down, pushing the blankets back enough so he could kiss her firmly on the forehead. “Get some sleep, shortarse. We can make a voodoo doll in the morning.”

It was all well and good for him to say that, but Rebecca couldn’t sleep. All she could think of was her husband, the husband who she loved so much it hurt, who always said that he loved her, who gave her his secret, shy, tentative smile, who knew her for better for worse.

By the time Greg surfaced the next morning, she was already up, and finishing a cup of coffee. He didn’t say anything but then he knew her well enough to know it wouldn’t help.

“Going home?” he asked finally, as he stirred sugar into his own cup.

Rebecca shook her head. “I’m going for a walk,” she said. “I need some air.”

Greg set down his cup and came over to hug her comfortingly. “It’ll be okay, Becks,” he said. “He’ll do the right thing.”

“You don’t believe that,” she murmured, resting her head against his chest, just for a moment. “You think he’s a bastard.”

“I’m trying to be comforting, woman!” Greg exclaimed, earning a chuckle. “I was working very hard at lying comfortingly.”

She swatted his side. “Stick to honesty,” she said, “Looks better on you.” She rose on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“I got free casserole out of it,” he said with a straight face. “What’s not to like?”

She socked his arm again. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

He nodded, watching her as she headed for the door.

The late autumn air was crisp and cool, the best kind of weather, with the sun breaking through the clouds. 

Rebecca shoved her hands in her pockets, walking slowly through the streets. She nodded in greeting to the Sheriff as he rushed by. He stared at her blankly for a long moment, and she frowned.

“You okay, Graham?”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m fine. I-I just need…” He shook his head and hurried away. Rebecca watched him go. People in Storybrooke had been getting stranger and stranger lately. 

She continued down the street, and it wasn’t until the scent of lilies reached her that she realised where her feet had taken her. It had been a long time since she had come this way, and she looked up at the sign of Game of Thorns. 

Sometimes, she thought wearily, a girl just needed her dad.

 

________________________________________________

 

Sir Maurice had seen horrors in his time.

He’d seen grown men shiver and shake on the battlefield, white faced with terror. He’d seen those same men suffer and bleed out, their faces contorted and eyes stretched too wide. He’d seen the sick, the wounded, the dying. And he’d seen the monsters who had been the cause, and the atrocities they could commit within hours if left unchecked.

The ogre wars were over - and who knew what deals had been made, what magic had been wrought, to bring that about? – and the kingdoms rejoiced. Sir Maurice had thought the horrors to be over.

That was before he came to Avonlea to visit his daughter, his bright and strong little daughter. She was sweating and shivering, tossing restlessly in her bed with shadowed eyes and skin pale as parchment, and no, the horrors had not passed. He’d rather have watched a hundred men butchered than have to see his Belle reduced to this.

“How long has she been like this?” he asked, and Gaston looked at him with the sympathy of a man who has felt all of this a hundred times over. His son-in-law was a good man, Maurice thought. He was strong and good, kind and loyal to his wife and his people. Everything that a father could hope for for his daughter, if one left aside her original complaints that she wasn’t in love with him, and their empty nursery. How much must this poor man have suffered since Belle took ill, watching what Maurice now watched? How had it grieved him seeing this pain wrought on the woman they’d both dedicated themselves to protecting?

“Two weeks now,” Gaston said, heavily, “and the monster who did it won’t stop screaming.”

“Rumpelstiltskin did this?” his voice was a horrified gasp. Across the lands, they knew of the beast caged in Avonlea. He could not imagine what Belle could have done to warrant such a curse, if a curse it was, but a fool would know that nothing would cure it, if he had set to see her die.

“She visits with him every day,” Gaston said, bleakly, “well, she did. She can’t now, even when she’s lucid I-” He swallowed hard. “She asks to visit, to calm him. But he made her this way and I’m damned if I’ll let him finish the job.”

“Papa?” The thrashing had stopped, and a small voice came from the bed.

“Sweetheart?” Maurice was by her bedside in an instant, on his knees to level his face with hers, and her smile was a weak imitation of the beaming sunshine that was such a part of her. “How are you feeling, petal?”

“Oh, you know, same old,” she said, and he tried to laugh at her bad joke. Her eyes were unfocussed and glassy. “Could do with a new body though, I think. This one’s rebelling.”

“Can I do anything to help, Belle?” he asked, urgently, “Name it, darling, and it’s yours.”

“I want to go downstairs,” she said, immediately, “to the dungeon.”

“Belle, I-”

“Papa," her voice was a rasping breath. "He didn’t do this to me. And he’s screaming… even in my head I can hear him screaming. Let me go to him, let him see me." She curled her fingers weakly against his. "I can hardly get any worse, can I?”

“You’d use your strength to visit with the monster who’s already half killed you?” he asked, incredulously, but Belle’s head was already nodding, slow and creaking, her breathing shallow even from that effort.

“He didn’t do this, papa,” she whispered, “we had a deal.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Maurice felt his heart breaking for his girl: she had always been too quick to trust, to care, to let anyone and anything into that warm heart of hers. She shouldn’t have to suffer for that, he thought, not when it was the best thing about her. “You shouldn’t have done that, you know.”

“He wouldn’t hurt me,” she insisted. “I promise you that. But if you don’t let me see him…” She coughed, hard, her whole body shaking with the force of it. “Please, papa, Gaston… he might at least know why I’m sick. He might be able to help me.”

“They won’t let him be freed, you know. If that’s what he asks for. King James is a good leader but he’d be a fool to free him even for your life.”

“Let me see him,” she said again, “please, please papa. Let me go down there.”

He shot one more look to Gaston, but Maurice’s mind was made up. He had never been able to deny her a thing, not since the day she was born, the day that stole away her mother's life, and although he knew that not even the kind-hearted Queen Snow would allow the monster freed, not even for Belle’s life, Maurice knew that he’d hack down the very bars of Rumpelstiltskin’s prison if it would save her.

No one would thank him for it, but that was what fathers did for their children.

He nodded, once, and ordered a wheeled chair, the one last used for Gaston’s grandmother in her oldest age, brought to the room. Gaston protested all the while, accused him of sending his daughter to her death, of not understanding the threat, of being too soft in a crisis situation. 

In the end, he refused to accompany them, but even that would not sway Maurice. If Belle was cursed, as the nurses had whispered and Gaston implied, then Rumpelstiltskin was her only option. Even if he was the culprit, he was also her last chance. 

So it was, wrapped in blankets and shivering, but calm and resolute, that Belle was taken back down from her bedchamber to the courtyard. Thence - cradled in her father's arms - she was borne down the staircase to the Dark One’s cell.

The screaming was as terrible as he’d been warned, and Maurice flinched when they came through the cave mouth, and there was no more rock between him and the howling wretch behind the bars. 

“I told you!” it screamed, “No one must come here, I’ll see no one, no one must come here, no one, no one-” Then it stopped, all of a sudden, and the cave was quiet as a grave. The creature clambered down from where he’d hung from his bars, and stood straight on the ground, as calm and restrained as any mortal man. His finger was shaking when it rose and pointed forward, at Belle in her father's arms. Her grave, glassy eyes fixed on him. “Who is that?”

“That is your victim, Rumpelstiltskin,” Maurice said, heavily, “my daughter.”

“The lady?” Rumpelstiltskin gasped, and if it was shock or horror or glee or anguish in his voice, Maurice could not tell. “What have you done to her?”

“Your curse has taken effect.” Maurice’s tone did not waver: he knew not if this vile creature was his daughter’s sickness or salvation, but he’d not be frightened or bullied either way. “She’s dying, Rumpelstiltskin." He looked down at Belle, her head resting so heavily on his shoulder. "And she demanded to see you.”

The imp said nothing for a long moment, opaque eyes enormous and staring, before he crooked his finger in silent request to have her brought closer.

"The chair," Belle whispered, little more than a breath. Maurice had not noticed the small wooden seat, so very close to the bars, and he felt sick with the knowledge that she would sit so close to the cursed beast.

Maurice moved closer warily, keeping one eye on the imp, as he set his daughter down on the chair. He was close enough now to see the monster’s hands floundering and shaky, trembling as they waved about awkwardly. 

“What has happened to her?” Rumpelstiltskin asked.

“The consensus is that you’ve cursed me, punishment for imprisoning you,” Belle said, weakly, and Maurice could hear a wry smile in her voice. “Did you do that?”

“We had a deal, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin replied, stiffly. Then he grinned, wicked but without spite or nastiness, “And if you were to suffer for my sake, I’d make it messier. You know that.”

Maurice was stunned to hear a little laugh from his daughter. “Indeed, I do. I told them it was silliness: were you to want me dead, my entrails would cover the floor.”

“Mmm.” Rumpelstiltskin hummed, and Maurice was certain he could see a flicker of concern behind his eyes, in the lines of his mottled face. “And what a pretty pattern they’d make. Certainly I’d not choose this… wasting sickness.” He almost sounded pleading, as if begging her to believe him. “I’d not leave a lady to suffer for weeks from fever in her own bedchamber." He tapped his claws at the bars of his cell, his voice curiously quiet. "For that is where you’ve been, is it not? That’s why you broke our deal.”

“Yes,” she said, softly. “And I hear you broke your side as consequence.” She took a laboured breath. “That screaming was hardly good behaviour, Rumple.” She almost sounded chiding, and Maurice bit back a reluctant little smile: of all the women in the world, of course it was his Belle who could gently chastise the Dark One. She straightened, shifting uncomfortably, her voice already exhausted, “But I’m here now. Our deal is intact, and you can stop terrorising my people.”

“They didn’t tell me you were too sick to visit!” Rumpelstiltskin protested indignantly. “Too scared of the monster’s teeth to bring the bad news,” he grumbled, “Scared little rabbits in the dark, scrabbling without a Queen.”

“Can you heal her?” Maurice demanded, unsettled by whatever it was that had passed between the creature and his daughter. They seemed entirely too familiar, he thought, and he was struck by a horrid realisation: this sickness may not be of his making, but what about something more insidious? What about a charm on her mind to make her docile, friendly, trusting of him? How could they test for that, how could they know it was Belle and not the monster’s slave that spoke to them with her tongue?

“Yes, yes, yes.” Rumpelstiltskin’s hands fluttered, his eyes still fixed on Belle. “For a price she can be restored, if the medicine takes correctly.”

“What medicine?” Maurice demanded, at the same time that Belle’s voice asked, “What price?”

Rumpelstiltskin giggled, did a little spin on his heel, his eyes finally and terribly fixed on Maurice. “Why, a red poppy and sulphur potion would surely do the trick, especially with a little… magical encouragement. Mixed in the right doses, it heals all ailments, powerful as it is.” He surveyed Belle shrewdly. “And without true love’s kiss, which I assume is unattainable, it’s the only thing that could heal the fair maiden.”

“What price for it?” Belle demanded, again, her voice a croak. “What do you ask of me?”

He turned a strange, thoughtful look on her, sidling closer to the bars, until the magic in them crackled and hissed with his nearness. "A high price," he whispered after a silence that felt like it had lasted forever.

"I will pay any price," Maurice interrupted.

Rumpelstiltskin waved a hand dismissively. "Tch!"

"This is a deal for my health, papa," Belle murmured. "Thus, it is my price to pay."

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, as if she had done a trick well. "Yes, yes, dearie." His fingers shaped the bars, gliding up and down a hair's breadth from them. "Your price will be the name of your firstborn."

Maurice was shocked at the beast's cruelty, and Belle stared at him uncomprehendingly. "My firstborn?"

Rumpelstiltskin's eyes glittered in the darkness. "Yes, Princess," he said, shifting his head slowly from side to side. He was like a snake, Maurice realised, mesmerising and deadly. He feared the moment the creature would strike. "Your firstborn's name. You know what it would be, don't you, dearie? That's my price: that precious secret name."

Belle's breathing was the only sound in the cell, rasping and echoing back on them. Finally, she nodded. "Deal."

Rumpelstiltskin skipped back with a wicked chuckle. "Wonderful," he crooned. He curled his fingers. "Bring her closer. I need to see what poison is in her."

Maurice looked at his daughter in alarm, but she nodded. "He won't harm me, papa," she whispered. He nodded, reluctantly, and lifted her up in his arms, carrying her closer to the cage. He knelt, supporting her, hating the fact they had to depend on a deranged monster's mercy for her salvation.

A clawed hand reached through the bars, the magic crackling around his arm, and his fingers shaped the air over her heart, his eyes fixed on her face. "Look to me, princess," he crooned, "let me see what taints you."

Maurice wanted to drag her away, pull her back towards the light, where she would be well and happy. But without the demon's intervention, he could pull her wherever he pleased but she would be neither well nor happy. So he held his tongue and watched as her half-glazed eyes fixed on Rumpelstiltskin's.

The imp's magic was limited, bound by the bars, but it seemed it was enough, and his hand curved into a claw, vicious and terrible. He hissed, his expression black with fury, and he raised his eyes to Maurice. "What a family you allowed her to wed into," he snarled.

"Gaston?" Belle whispered, pain in her voice. "No. He wouldn't."

"No, no, no," Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, his breath rasping savagely between his teeth. "But there is witchery here. Paid for in coin." He extended his shaking hand to her face, shaping the air about her cheek, as if feeling the heat of her fever. "Someone made me a scapegoat to be rid of you, dearie. Someone of his blood."

Belle closed her eyes. "Oh," she breathed. 

Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyes to Maurice. "Go above," he snarled. "Fetch the physician's chest and bring it here. Sulphur and red poppy and all else that you can find. I will give her a remedy to dispel the curse, but I must see it all." A shaking claw pointed at Maurice. "Her death will be upon your head if you disobey."

Maurice started to rise.

"No," Belle murmured. "Leave me here. Quicker, papa. Quicker is better."

"If you harm her," Maurice said grimly to the imp. "I will find a way to destroy you."

Rumpelstiltskin bared his teeth. "I would say the same, old man," he growled. "Now run along."

Reluctantly, Sir Maurice laid his child down on the ground; she too weak to even hold her head up. The demon remained crouched by the bars, his eyes fixed on her face. Whatever deal had been made between them, he could only hope it was enough to protect her from Rumpelstiltskin's cruelty.

 

_________________________________________________

 

The one fortunate thing about a flower shop was that the owner had to be there earlier, to receive deliveries and start working on any orders. Her father had a bad habit of leaving the front door unlocked, even when he was working in the back, so she made sure the bell at the door jangled as she entered.

It looked like business was going well. She knew her father had begrudgingly taken out a loan from her husband, and with her gently nuzzling Alistair’s cheek, the rate of interested had plummeted to a manageable level. 

Whether that would still hold if Alistair…

She caught her breath, trying to fight back the emotions. It was ridiculous how easily she was crying these days. 

“Sorry,” her father pushed through the bead curtain. “The shop’s…” He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at her. “Becky?”

She smiled uncertainly. She hadn’t seen him since the wedding. No. Before that. Since the engagement. He hated her husband. He hated the fact that Rebecca loved him. He couldn’t stand to see her with the man, so he avoided her. Did business with her husband, but avoided her.

“Hi dad,” she said.

He set down the bucket of flowers he was carrying. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugged. “I just…” He didn’t ask how she was. He didn’t ask if she was all right. When was it possible that she and her father had drifted so far apart? She shook her head, the words catching in her throat. “I’ll go,” she whispered, knowing she wouldn’t make it to the door before the tears came.

“I know the payments are late,” he said guardedly. “He didn’t need to send you.”

She stared blankly at the door. “That wasn’t why I came, dad,” she said, her voice breaking. She didn’t want to turn. She didn’t want him to see the tears. “I’ll call you some time.”

She was out in the street and walking away briskly before he even called her name, and even when he did, she didn’t look back, the tears hot on her wind-chilled face. She swiped them away, breathing hard. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t even like she was on her…

Rebecca stopped dead in her tracks.

How long had it been? Not since the last time she and Alistair had been happy, certainly. Definitely not since the last time they had made love, when he still wore star-spangled underwear. 

She took a shaking breath. Oh, it would just be perfect, wouldn’t it? After everything that had gone wrong already, it would just be the icing on the cake if her husband decided to break up with her just when her body decided to fix itself.

She swallowed down the tears, scrubbed her face with the back of her hand and marched towards the pharmacy. She needed tissues anyway, and while she was there, she could get a test, and then…

And then, she didn’t know what, but it would be something.


	7. Chapter 7

The Sheriff had passed away.

It was unfortunate, to be sure, but it was also an unexpected boon. 

In the days that followed, he spent his time in the records office, looking out the guidelines for the Sheriff's position and how someone might acquire it. It was easier, and safer, to lose himself in the petty trivialities of social law, and to let Belle - Rebecca - drift back towards the man who was her true husband. 

He could do little for her, now, but to let her path run its course away from him. That was the way had come to expect things, and there was no reason she would be any different.

He took to sleeping on the couch, in the back of his shop, anything that didn't mean he had to face her softness in his arms. It was too much of a temptation and Rumpelstiltskin was anything but a strong man.

Sometimes, they met over the breakfast table, and sometimes, she gazed at him with a look in her eye that was more than just sadness and betrayal. If he mentioned Emma Swan, if he indicated he was dealing with her, she looked even graver and sadder. He could imagine the train of thought she was following, and as much as it hurt her, better that he encouraged it and kept her at arm's length.

His meeting with Miss Swan over the town charter, when it came, went well. She was amenable to a benefactor, and though she had no understanding of his purpose and still trusted him as much as anyone would trust a shark, it was progress.

He returned home early for once.

Rebecca was usually out on a Tuesday evening, seeing the two-for-one movie with Greg, so he was caught by surprise when he set the books down on the table in the darkened dining room and the light was switched on behind him. 

Rebecca was standing there, hair a loose halo around her face, but her expression drawn and pale. She was still angry with him for his uncaring attitude towards the Sheriff's death, of that he had no doubt. She liked the man, harmless and helpless as he was. She always did like to watch over the lost causes. 

"I'm a little busy, sweetheart," he said, motioning to the heavy legal tomes.

"You always are," she said. Her voice was taut, and her eyes brighter than bright.

He looked away from her. "What can I say?" he said. "There's much work to be done."

"It can wait."

He laughed quietly. Waiting. It was all he seemed to do these days. Waiting to be free of her, waiting for her to be free of him, waiting for them all to be free from the curse. "I don't really think so," he said, keeping his back to her. It was easier than seeing the pained look on her face. He opened one of the books, but she walked closer and slammed the book closed, her hand flat on the cover.

Rumpelstiltskin looked at her in surprise. It wasn't in Rebecca's nature to be so direct. Playfully, yes, but in seriousness, no.

"Is something wrong?"

Her expression was stern, grim. For a moment, she looked like the woman who had made a deal for his good behaviour so long ago. Even that thought made his heart wrench, Belle but not, standing before him. "Sit down, Alistair."

He studied her, then sat, extending his damaged leg. "Very well," he said. He made a negligent gesture with one hand, hoping she would not notice how much it shook. "What's all the fuss about, love?"

Rebecca laid her hands on the back of one of the other chairs. Her knuckles were white, and she swallowed hard. He hadn't seen her look so tense, so nervous before. "I'm pregnant."

Rumpelstiltskin felt like his world had narrowed to darkness, Rebecca a pinpoint of light a thousand miles away. His blood rushed in his ears, and his heart thundered savagely. A name echoed in his mind, a name he had asked for as a price, a price she had never thought would hold any value. 

"Wh-what?" he said hoarsely.

Rebecca looked down at her hands, her nails biting into the back of the chair. "You heard." She took a long, slow breath. "You're going to be a father."

He wanted to rise. He wanted to flee. He wanted to curse. He wanted to overturn the table and scream and rage at his vision, for giving him a glimpse, but never showing him the truth, of her importance to him, of how much it would feel like she had torn his heart from him and burned it before him.

His head was whirling. He licked his lips, his mouth dry. "You're sure?"

Rebecca nodded, not meeting his eyes. "I've known for days," she said dully. "You were never here."

A good husband would have risen, embraced her, comforted her, told her he was an idiot, but the child was never meant to be his. He had seen it too clearly: Belle swollen with child, resting in the arms of her husband, her true husband, not this false sham of an imagined marriage. 

He stared at his hand around the cane, knowing he was hurting her, but knowing it was necessary, as he made himself ask, "Are you sure it's mine?"

She was silent for so long that he lifted his head, and the instant he did, her hand struck him like a whip, knocking his head sideways.

"How dare you!" she snarled, all flashing eyes and bared teeth. "You're the one who abandoned me, Alistair! You're the one who has walked out! Do you think I haven't heard how much you've been trailing after that Emma Swan? Do you think I don't know about that? And now you accuse me of being unfaithful?"

He licked the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. "You're mistaken," he said, meeting her eyes and trying his utmost to hold his gaze steady. He pushed himself to his feet. "I've heard about all the time you're spending with Mr Aston."

"God!" Rebecca threw her hands up. "You're- I don't even believe you anymore! We've been waiting for this moment for years and just when we could have what we wanted, just when we could be happy, you accuse me of screwing my friend? Do you really think so little of me? You said you loved me, Alistair!"

He had to look away, the accusation and grief in her eyes too painful. "I did."

"Did." Rebecca's voice was flat. "Did. So it's that simple?" She stepped closer to him, so close he would have had to back away to escape her, but the chair was in the way, blocking his path. "Tell me," she said, seeking his eyes with her own. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't love me."

He couldn't avoid her eyes. He couldn't, and the hope, the desperate hope in them, made him flinch. "I don't love you."

"Liar," she said flatly.

A better man would have said it again, and crushed her, sent her running back into the arms of a man she’d never truly love, but who was at least worthy of her. A better man would have broken her heart so that someone else could heal it, so that when Belle awoke she wouldn’t be shackled to a monster half mad for love of her, who she’d never feel more than pity for. A better man would lie again, and again, and scream it from the rooftops if he had to, if that would make her hear it.

A better man could have done it, but Rumpelstiltskin was weak, and old, and rotten to his core. “What difference does it make?” he asked, finally, his voice low but clear in the dead silence.

“What difference?” Rebecca’s voice was as hoarse as his, but higher, startled and appalled. “Alistair, the difference is our marriage! It’s whether our baby, your child, is raised in a house full of love or by a broken woman and an asshole who left her high and dry!”

“You said it yourself, pet,” he said, quietly, “there’s not been love in this house for a while now.”

“We never fought, Alistair. We never had a row, or threw things, or caught one another in bed with someone else. Nothing happened, nothing changed. What did I do to make you turn on me?”

Her voice had become calm, if too high and too hurt to ever belong on those lips, and he knew it: he’d broken her. Like every other beautiful thing that had ever crossed his hands, she’d wound up shattered on the floor.

Once this would have been his victory. Now it made him want to die.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” he said, at last, “Nothing at all.”

“Alistair, I swear to God if your next words are ‘it’s not you, it’s me’…” she shook her head, a hysterical smile on her lips as tears began to fall, “This is a happy day! We’re pregnant! We’re having a baby, we spent forever wanting a baby and now we have one and you’ve managed to ruin it!” she stepped forward and slapped him again, his head reeling from the blow. She leaned down, her hands on his collar, hauling her face close to his and hissing, “You’ve managed to make the happiest day since our wedding day into something horrible and cruel and I still love you more than anything and I don’t understand why anymore!”

She was sobbing openly now, shaking him with her little hands, her tears splashing on his suit. Rebecca Gold had been programmed to love her husband more than reason. Enough to break from her old life, enough to set everything else aside, enough to see past all his faults and the pain he could inflict. 

She was a good woman, kind and bright, the sweetest thing he’d ever been able to hold since Bae left. And here she stood, shaking him, sobbing, with his baby in her belly and her heart broken from his cruelty.

Slowly, he reached his arms up around her, and she fell onto him hard. He reeled back a little from the sudden weight of her, but she was a small thing, light as air, and he could hold her easily. She curled around him with an almost desperate strength, sobbing into his shoulder and clutching at his suit.

Belle would have left by now. Belle would have been strong enough not to need him, to set love aside and be sensible.

But Rebecca was not Belle, and she needed her husband. 

“You were supposed to leave,” he muttered into her hair, the violence of her sobbing causing something to bend and break inside him. He had caused this and it made him want to vomit. She was still Belle enough to make him love her, as much as Rebecca loved her Alistair, and it was too much for his weak soul to bear. “You foolish girl, why didn’t you leave?”

“Do you want me to?” she asked, looking up at him at last. Her face was wet and red, blotchy and swollen from crying and still she was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in three centuries.

If he said yes, now, then she’d do it. She’d leave.

But he was all out of strength, and all out of lies, and there was a part of him, the part who was still human and a father, a spinner from a little village, who delighted in the pure and simple joy of a woman he loved so deeply carrying his child.

He reached out, his hand shaking, and pressed the flat of his palm to her belly.

Maybe, if he was good to her now, when Belle awoke in her knight’s arms she would allow Rumpelstiltskin to see his child. Maybe she wouldn’t hate him, if she remembered the pain she’d gone through, the greater suffering he’d have caused by forcing her to go.

“No,” he said, hushed and entirely honest. Were the world a perfect place, he’d never have to let her leave again.

Her lips crushed his before he could say another word, and he kissed her back with everything he had, matching her every desperate movement with one of his own, hands clutching and tearing at clothing and hair and skin, anything that could be grasped or tugged. His fingers found themselves woven between silken curls, holding her head so he could suck and bite at her lips, the violence of his own kiss startling him. She was pulling at his clothing as his hands grasped at her hips, and everything was a blur of movement and desperate sensation. 

Surely Belle would forgive him this, surely she knew him well enough for that. Rebecca was touch-starved and half crazed, pregnant and lonely, and he couldn’t hurt her any longer. He loved her and she loved him, and it seemed an unbearable cruelty to deny it any longer.

It wouldn’t fix things, and they wouldn’t be okay, and the world would stay dark and everything would hurt, but just for now, just for this once, that didn’t matter. 

When it was over, she was smiling again, her tears dried on her cheeks. They had never been so wild, urgent and desperate, before the curse began to break, but then Rebecca had never cried and Alistair had never been cruel. 

“I love you,” she said, softly, “I always will.” She soothed the damnation of her words with a soft kiss to his throat, exposed now by a half-torn shirt.

“Yes,” he breathed, beyond strong lies and reason now, “and I love you too.”

She smiled brilliantly against his skin, and then pulled herself away and stood, kicking her jeans off completely so she stood in nothing but a rumpled t-shirt and underwear. She took his hands in hers, and without thought or question, he let her lead him to bed.

____________________________________________________

She was dying.

The Lady of Avonlea was dying, and the blame had been laid at his feet. 

Rumpelstiltskin rocked on his toes impatiently, waiting for her fool of a father to return, his eyes never leaving the woman. She was laid outside his cage, wrapped in blankets, her skin translucent as stained glass, even by the dim light of the torch.

"I knew it wasn't you." Her dry, cracked lips were barely parted when she whispered, her voice so soft he had to strain to hear it. 

"Yet you asked," he growled, wondering how best to wreak vengeance on the ones who had done such a thing to her. He could not decide if the fury tearing at him was on her part or out of indignation that his name had been put to it. 

Her eyes opened a sliver. The bright clear blue seemed diluted with pain and exhaustion. Every part of her was fading. "Because they wouldn't believe me if I didn't let them hear you deny it," she whispered. "They had to know that I'm not played for a fool."

He sneered at her out of habit. "Perhaps you think you aren't..."

"Stop." It was quiet, broken. "No more."

He curled his fingers over his knees, rocking on his toes. "They did this to you," he growled low in his throat. "I would carve them apart, flesh from bone, for it."

Surprised - exhausted and brief - crossed her face. "A sweet gesture, no doubt," she breathed, her lips twitching in a small smile. "Hardly flowers or romance, though, is it?"

Rumpelstiltskin stared at her in astonishment. "They poisoned you, you foolish child!" he snarled. Only a moment too late, he recalled, "And I was laid to blame. I have committed many crimes, but I will not accept the blame for a murder that is not my doing." She was still smiling quietly, and he added darkly, "Especially one done so inefficiently."

"Oh, hush," she whispered. "You fuss so much."

"And you hardly fuss enough," he said, then bit off the words, wondering at how prissy he sounded. "It's a wonder you've lived long enough to see this day."

She weakly pushed an arm out from beneath the blankets, towards the bars, so close that she could have reached through them, had she wished to do so. "It has been said," she murmured, her eyes slipping closed again.

Rumpelstiltskin felt the change in tenor in the air, and deal or none, she could no longer hear him. He started screaming again, screaming loud and long, hard enough to penetrate the rocks, to make her damned fool of a father to hasten back, to bring what was needed to do what had to be done.

No one came, not at once, and he reached through the bars.

The magic was still strong, powerfully so, to keep him from touching or harming anyone. His clawed fingers tugged at the air above her limp little hand, the air sparking and crackling and keeping her out of his reach. She was not a woman who should die alone, without someone to hold her. He keened in his throat, then tossed back his head and howled again.

He did not know how long he remained there, crouched beside the lady’s limp, near-lifeless body and screaming, before another presence joined them. Her father had returned, laden with an entire apothecary of potions and medicines in his arms, hurrying as best he could with his heavy load and heavier build. Rumpelstiltskin moved with inhuman speed to the other end of his cell, and eagerly held out his hand as far as he could through the bars.

“Wh- which is it?” the man asked, uncertainly, “Which is the right one?”

Rumpelstiltskin’s voice snapped and crackled. “Red bottle, gold stopper.”

The lord fumbled a moment, spreading the bottles and jars on the ground to sort through them. Finally he raised the correct little bottle between two fingers, and Rumpelstiltskin clapped his hands.

“Yes, yes, yes!” he grinned in pure joy. “Add a drop from the narrow dark blue bottle, there! Yes, yes! That one! A single drop, mind you!” He watched like a hawk, as the single, thick, oily drop was deposited into the red. “Now, shake thrice, no more, no less.” The bottle seemed to glow, bright as a jewel. “You have your remedy.”

“We- we had a deal.” The lord stumbled to his feet, “You’re to save my girl. This potion is to cure her.”

Clever man, Rumpelstiltskin thought, not trusting the demon even now. He could see a little of his daughter’s wit behind the man’s desperate, pleading eyes. 

“And it will,” Rumpelstiltskin assured him. The lord knelt by his weakening daughter, pouring the scarlet liquid into the lady’s unresisting mouth. “Restore her to the peak of health, fill her with life and vitality,” Rumpelstiltskin continued, to fill the aching silence, “fill her heart and soul to bursting, even.”

That last comment gave the Dukeling pause, and his head lifted even as the potion continued to pour, and the unconscious lady continued to swallow. “Bursting?”

Rumpelstiltskin froze. Then his hands spread wide, and he shrugged as if he did not hope with all his blackened heart that he’d be proven wrong. “Well,” he sneered, “there is a reason this potion’s not used lightly. Magic comes with a price.”

“The name,” the lord stammered, “the name is the price!”

“Of course, for my help and the magic’s work.” Rumpelstiltskin leaned closer to the bars, skittering his fingers upon them like agitated spiders. “But if she is not at death’s door… if she were to simply be exhausted, have years in her yet… well, life and death are twins, after all. An overabundance of the former can inspire the latter.”

“It could kill her,” the lord said, bleakly, “It could poison her.”

The potion had all run out of the bottle, and the lord threw it away. He rose, his hands shaking, eyes wide as his daughter began to convulse and shake on the ground. Her eyes slammed open, wide and unseeing as her mouth stretched into a grotesque and silent scream. 

The bottle rattled eerily across the cold stone floor, into the darkness, forgotten. 

Light pulsed beneath the Lady’s skin, golden and hard and violent, and her father staggered back from it, one hand held to his eyes. She was shaking harder now, limbs convulsing as the magic flooded every cell and vein. Her back arched and her eyes rolled. The light grew brighter and brighter, blinding, and Rumpelstiltskin’s skin through the bars began to burn with it.

“Go!” he roared, “Leave now!”

The man gave him an uncertain look, as if he’d stay with his child, and Rumpelstiltskin felt an unsettling burst of sympathy for the father of a child in such pain, even though the Dukeling’s skin was starting to scorch and blister. The moment broke when she screamed, a long and howling, keening sound. The Duke fled, retreating out and slamming the door.

Rumpelstiltskin would cry cowardice, were it not for the reason for his command: any living presence in the room was at risk, any witness could be hurt by such wild magic. It was for her, not for her father, that he granted a warning. 

Wrapped in his gold-green scales, Rumpelstiltskin was immune. It was a blessing and a cruelty to be forced to stand and watch, as the fierce, proud lady of Avonlea writhed, screaming in pain unimaginable even for the Dark One. She was beyond thought, overwhelmed by the sheer, burning life roaring through her. It would kill or save her, and either way, Rumpelstiltskin would bear witness to every moment of it.

And then, all of a sudden, she went entirely still. 

The screaming stopped. Her body was stiff and hard but thankfully without the limp softness of instant death. 

“My lady?” he asked, carefully, bracing his hands against the bars, despite the sparking, blistering power searing his skin. He received no response, not even a flicker of her expressive blue eyes. 

She lay for minutes that felt like hours, stiff and staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. The light faded, dissipating into the darkness of the cell or sinking into her pale skin, but still, not a blink, not a word, not a breath.

He could not see her breathing. A low whimper stuck in his throat. He had killed the Lady of Avonlea, and broken their deal. He’d promised to save her and she’d died at his feet.

He sank to his knees on the dirty floor, and for a moment, a long moment, did nothing but stare at her, willing her to move or breathe or anything, any sign at all that she still lived. She was as beautiful as in life, still warm to his fingers hovering inches above her skin, still with a hint of blood in her cheeks. She had died alone, without so much as a hand to clasp in her final moments, a kiss to her soft mouth or arms to hold her steady. He’d have held her hand, cradled her, kissed her. He’d have done it given half a chance.

Yet one more comfort ripped from him by fairy tricks.

The warmth was a final mockery, just glancing on his skin, as close as he could be to her wasted body. As if he had not murdered the first person to treat him as a human being in centuries. As if her blood, however cursed it had been by a village witch’s poisons, did not drip from his hands.

Victory, he thought, lain like an offering at his very feet: a broken queen of a now-broken castle.

He threw his head back, and keened like an animal with a knife in its belly. His scream, loud and long and as agonised as any torn from her own bloodless lips, echoed through the chambers, a final cry of loss that he’d never try to explain, not even to himself.

And then, finally and blessedly, here eyes closed. A long, slow breath passed through her lips, with the final trace of that accursed golden light threaded through it, and her fingers twitched.

Her head, slowly, rocked to the side to face him, and without opening her eyes she whispered, “Rumpelstiltskin?”

The shock of his name roused him as her small movements had not, and his head fell forward sharply. “You’re alive?”

“I… yes…” 

And then, then it was like the sun coming out, as if he had ripped it from the sky itself to hide away in his dark chamber. 

She smiled, a broad and beaming smile, and slowly rose to sit, drawing her delicate knees to her chest and hugging tight. She let out a small laugh, a giggle as light as air, and he watched it all in rapt fascination. She had new life poured into her very veins, and she was the brightest spark he’d seen in all the dark universe. 

But she had been so before, he thought, and he’d only known it, as blind as he’d ever been, the moment he’d thought it extinguished.

“How do you feel?” he asked, cautiously.

“I feel…” She took a deep breath, and let it out with a small laugh once again, “Marvellous. Absolutely marvellous.” 

She lifted her arms wide, and seemed to admire the slim, dexterous shapes of her own fingers, the arcs her newly-strengthened arms could make in the air. She kicked her legs and giggled like a small child, and Rumpelstiltskin watched the whole display with closely concealed delight. She practically shone through the dark, dank cell, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

She paused in her laughter to glance at him, and his lack of even a smile – too lost in his captivation – gave her pause. She looked at him closer, cornflower eyes narrowed, her old shrewdness returning in her scrutiny. Something in his eyes, the set of his jaw and the frown of his brow; some of his anxiety and his fear must have bled through his careful mask because her naked joy was replaced by something softer, like gratitude or sympathy. She rose up on her knees, crawled as close to the bars as she could and leaned forward, toward him. She put one of her small, pale hands as close to his cheek as magic would allow, and he felt the slight warmth of her through a hairsbreadth of air. 

“You did it, Rumpelstiltskin. You saved me.”

He wished more than anything in the world, in this moment, just to break every law of this binding magic and allow her skin to meet his.

He swallowed, hard, eyes darting nervously from her bright eyes to her flushed cheeks to the arm extended toward him, and back again. “Yes,” he said, softly, “It appears I did.”

There was a long, held moment, the tense silence so palpable Rumpelstiltskin could almost taste it on his tongue. The lady’s hand traced the shape of his cheek, but the same magic that kept him from snapping her neck kept off even that tender gesture, and all he could feel was a whisper of warmed air brushing his scales.

“Why can’t I touch you?” she asked, and he wasn’t sure why her voice had dropped to a whisper but his own lowered to match.

“Magic,” he replied, a little breathlessly, “to keep the monster from ripping maidens to shreds.”

“Silly magic,” the lady whispered, wrinkling her nose and sneering in an expression he knew she’d stolen from him. He let out a huff of strained laughter in agreement. “I’m not a maiden and you’re not a monster.”

“I could have killed you. The magic… it nearly did.”

“But it didn’t, and I feel healthier than I have in years,” she promised, and somehow her lovely face had crept closer to the bars, and were it not for magic and his own cowardice, there were bare inches between his mouth and hers.

He wondered if she’d welcome it, in this high of fresh life and vitality, the rush of gratitude to him for granting it to her. He wondered if she was far enough removed from good sense, in this moment, that she’d not push him away.

But he was never to know; even her hand couldn’t touch him, after all.

“Thank you,” she breathed, and he didn’t know if this sudden tension was enticing or frightening, intoxicating or dangerous in the extreme. It was both, he decided, but it was her alone that held him, kept his body from skittering away or his mind from forming a cruel quip to break her soft, warm smile.

“We had a deal,” he murmured back, but there was a smile on his lips, more human and genuine than any he’d worn in far too many years, and it softened his words. “Remember, milady?”

“Ah, yes,” she smiled, nodding, and to his disappointment she drew back again, her hand retreating to her side, her knees once again meeting her chest. She curled up in front of his cell, bare feet wriggling on the cold stone floor, and held his eyes. 

“Miranda,” she confided, softly, “for my mother. That is what I’d call my firstborn, if such a thing were possible.”

He wanted to think he’d hold it in mind, for the future when he’d be free of the lady and her knight, and he’d need leverage to remain in control. For that was the point of this deal, wasn’t it? To make sure they could never be free of him, to punish them in the next life for imprisoning him here.

Even though he had chosen this fate, he had wanted the option later.

Now he only felt a strange twist of both joy and sadness for this little woman, who shone so bright and had held so strong. Joy that she’d have, sooner than she thought, exactly what she’d prayed for; sadness that she’d never allow him to use the name she’d granted to press his palm to her child’s head, and bless her.

______________________________________

 

Rebecca was asleep in his arms.

There was a soft smile curling her lips, and the tensions that had furrowed her brow for so many days seemed to have been swept away. Rumpelstiltskin’s fingers trembled as he brushed her cheek.

He had seen it.

She would be with child, lying in the arms of her husband. He had seen it, and knew it would be so. He had blindly assumed – foolish, foolish man – that the child would be her Knight’s. Assumption was always folly when it came to the future. One could see the shape of it, but could never truly know.

He pressed his lips to her brow, and she stirred, snuggling closer to him. He didn’t know if she was awake or asleep.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Mm?” Rebecca’s eyes opened, and she squinted up at him.

He wished he hadn’t spoken, and his thumb grazed her cheekbone tenderly. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I was just thinking aloud.” She leaned up and stole another kiss, then nestled back down, her arm around his middle.

She felt right there. Perfect and right and far, far too good for the likes of him.

Tomorrow, he could be strong again. He had to be strong again. The future could not be denied, and she had to be back with her Knight for her own good, for her own sanity. No one ever stayed with Rumpelstiltskin, and for good reason, and once she knew what had been done without her will or consent, Belle would not remain either.

Tomorrow, he would be strong.

Tomorrow, he had work to be done.

Emma Swan needed to be in place to break the curse, and he would see to it that it was so, even if it meant putting Belle – Rebecca – aside. Rebecca and their child. The child that could not and would not be his, because they would wake up, and they would know what he had done.

He squeezed his eyes closed, breathing slow and steady, and fought the urge to hold her so tightly that she could never escape. This night, he thought tremulously. He would allow himself this night, and then no more. He had to set her free. He had to free himself. Only then could she be truly happy.


	8. Chapter 8

Things had improved, but only briefly.

Rebecca was disheartened to wake up alone, even after the night she had spent wrapped up in her husband’s arms. Even the spread Alistair had laid out for breakfast was a meagre comfort when she had been left alone, yet again.

Still, she consoled herself with the knowledge that he was busy, and he had at least left a note with the breakfast he had made for her.

That was the start of a week that just went from bad to worse.

The election of a new Sheriff was front-page news, especially because Emma Swan was standing as a candidate. Her past was more colourful than anyone had initially realised. An ex-jailbird single mother didn’t exactly sound promising, but she was a candidate now.

Alistair was helping her, Rebecca knew, and she had her own thoughts on why her husband was working so hard to get someone neutral elected. His rivalry with Regina over the town was the subject of urban legend in Storybrooke, though they were always civil in public, and if he could take the law out of the control of the Mayor, it might shake things up a bit.

Rebecca didn’t really care either way. Storybrooke wasn’t exactly a hive of criminal activity, and a Sheriff was a token post for the most part. Still, people were campaigning for both sides, and she ran into Kathryn putting up flyers in support of the Mayor’s candidate as she came out of the store.

“So, Sidney?”

Kathryn smiled crookedly. “Regina’s been so good to me since they found David,” she said, stapling the last poster in place. “I wanted to help her out.”

Rebecca nodded. “And he’s local,” she said, looking at the poster. “I don’t know if having someone new coming in from outside is a good idea, not for the town.” She offered Kathryn a quick smile. “Not that the Deputy is a bad person, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure she’s not,” Kathryn agreed, tucking away her staplegun. “I hear your husband’s supporting her campaign?”

“So people tell me,” Rebecca was embarrassed by the bitterness in her voice.

Kathryn looked at her in surprise. “He hasn’t been discussing it with you?”

Rebecca glanced around. She hated bringing up problems in her marriage in public, not least because Alistair had more than his fair share of enemies. “I think he prefers to keep politics out of the bedroom,” she said diplomatically.

“Ah,” Kathryn said with a knowing nod. “The little woman wouldn’t understand?”

“Sometimes, I think so,” Rebecca admitted. She shifted the weight of her groceries. “Where are you headed? I could walk with you.”

“City Hall,” Kathryn replied. “Regina’ll want to know where posters are up, and I told David I’d meet him there when we’re done.” She slipped her arm through Rebecca’s. “So, how are things going? I mean, apart from your husband’s occasional lapses into misogyny?” 

Rebecca laughed quietly. “Okay,” she said.

“Just okay?” Kathryn said. “Trouble in paradise?”

Rebecca made a face at her. “Alistair works too much,” she said. “That’s nothing new.”

“Mm.” Kathryn wrinkled her nose. “Husbands are a strange breed.”

“Yours too?” Rebecca asked, as they turned off Main Street and headed towards City Hall, which was thronged with people. 

Kathryn shrugged with a smile that looked as forced and strained as Rebecca’s felt. “I’m glad he’s home,” she said, as the continued along the sidewalk, side-stepping to avoid Archie and Pongo. “But sometimes, when he looks at me, it feels like he wants to be anywhere but there with me.”

“Maybe it’s a man thing,” Rebecca said. She looked around as they neared City Hall, frowning at the sight of David Nolan talking to Mary Margaret again. Mary Margaret was smiling a little too sweetly, and David was leaning towards her like they were old friends.

“Regina!” Kathryn released Rebecca’s arm, raising a hand, as the Mayor descended from the steps. Another glance told Rebecca that David and Mary Margaret had rapidly headed in different directions, and she breathed out in relief, turning a smile on the Mayor.

“Kathryn,” Regina Mills smiled at her, then looked at Rebecca. “Mrs Gold. I didn’t expect to see you on the campaign trail.”

Rebecca held up her groceries. “I was just walking with Kathryn,” she said. “I’m not one to dabble in politics.”

“Even when your husband is the sponsor of one of the candidates?” Regina’s dark eyes widened in surprise, “That doesn’t seem very loyal.”

Rebecca glanced around. “From the looks of it, there are enough people campaigning for both sides already,” she said. “And I don’t know this Swan woman. I don’t see why I should campaign for her.” She returned her smile to Regina. “Unless you’re encouraging me to support her, of course?”

The Mayor laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t do that now,” she said. “How is your husband, anyway, dear? He seems to be keeping himself busy.”

Rebecca’s smile fixed itself. There was something about the expression in the Mayor’s eyes when she asked after Alistair that always seemed hungry, as if she was looking for an opening or a weakness. “As you said,” she replied, “he’s busy. Owning half the town tends to keep him occupied.”

“Not neglecting his dear wife, I hope,” Regina said, tutting, “not with all the time he seems to be spending with that Swan girl.”

Rebecca’s hand tightened on her shopping bag. “We have plenty of time together,” she said, “and speaking of, I need to get home to make his dinner.” She turned to Kathryn. “We should have coffee some time.”

Kathryn smiled. “I’d like that. Call me?”

Rebecca nodded, turning in the direction of home. She didn’t know why Regina was getting to her so much, today especially. Emotions, she mused. Hormones. Oh, it was going to be fun being pregnant in a town where her husband and the Mayor exchanged verbal barbs when they thought she wasn’t paying attention.

Once, she speculated that Alistair had once held a flame for the Mayor. She was an attractive and intelligent woman, after all. Now, though, there was something else there, with the Mayor poking at her marriage, as if she wanted to find something wrong with it.

By the time she got home, she had bruises on her hand from gripping the handle of her bag so tightly. 

She found herself rather glad that her husband was not around, as she busied herself unpacking and starting the soup for dinner. She found herself in a funny mood, chopping vegetables with rather more prejudice than usual, humming hard, bright little songs under her breath and gritting her teeth. Everyone knew that Mary Margaret had been making eyes at David. Anyone with half a mind could see the way she smiled too brightly, and flirted with all the fluffy innocence of a woodland creature. Those who cared to have an opinion were either certain of David’s fidelity, or of Kathryn’s naiveté.

Rebecca liked to see the best in people, and Mary Margaret had been her friend and colleague for as long as she could remember. So she’d thought David a good, upstanding husband, and Mary Margaret a woman so desperate for affection, so alone, that she’d been caught up in a ridiculous crush that would soon pass. 

There had even been a ridiculously romantic part of her, deep inside, that believed that perhaps David would stay with the woman who had treated him through his amnesia, and let his wife down easily, promising that he was simply a new man now, with a new heart. She’d thought that if they wanted each other that badly, then a good man and a kind woman would do the decent thing.

She had never thought that between them they’d become a wrecking ball, and put poor Kathryn in their path.

She didn’t know what had changed her mind, she thought crossly, as she butchered a carrot with her chopping knife. Something had made her suddenly see the situation quite differently, whether it was the sighting at City Hall; or Kathryn’s uncertain, fearful little comments; or the Mayor’s dark-eyed insinuations. Somehow, where before poor Kathryn had seemed an acquaintance in a sad but strange situation, she now seemed a kindred spirit.

It was all three at once, she realised, tipping the last of the vegetables into the bubbling pot and setting it to simmer. Emma Swan and Alistair were never sighted together – which now seemed as ominous as David and Mary Margaret’s glaring presence – and Kathryn’s careful observations as they walked, slipped in here and there around assurances and pleasantries, had sounded so familiar that they could have come from Rebecca’s own lips.

She shook as she gripped the side of the counter, the final realisation making her eyes water, and she grit her teeth, tensed every muscle in an attempt to ward off the storm of crying that threatened to engulf her. Pregnant or not, neglected or not, scared and alone and miserable or not, Rebecca Gold would not crumble and sob like a child.

He didn’t return home before supper was ready. Rebecca left the pot in the oven on a low heat, and ate her own portion in silence, a book by her side. Even reading left her tense, exhausted further by the effort of forcing herself to concentrate on the story and not on the gnawing in her gut.

He wasn’t back until ten in the evening; by then she’d turned on the radio.

City Hall had fallen victim to a sudden fire. The fire department were calling it a fault in the electrics, and both the Mayor and Deputy Sheriff had almost perished. Were it not for the daring actions of Emma Swan, candidate to fill the position left vacant by Graham Humbert’s death, they would both have surely died in the flames.

For a brief, traitorous moment, Rebecca wondered if she’d miss either of them.

Would they be such a loss? The dark, glaring woman who insulted Rebecca’s husband whenever she could, and prodded holes in their marriage with her bloody fingernails; or the woman who now occupied every moment of his time, and interested him in ways his wife, apparently, no longer could?

She was a bad person, she thought, with a guilty twist of her stomach. She was jealous and miserable and pregnant, and it was no wonder that Alistair didn’t come home for dinner anymore.

When he finally did arrive home, she was surprised when he bothered to call a greeting. She was slumped on the sofa, feet curled under a blanket, her book in her lap and her mind adrift. She wasn’t sulking. Sulking would be childish, petty, and unkind. But she wasn’t happy, either, and she wondered if he could see it.

“Did you hear, love?” he asked, after he’d toed off his shoes and come to sit in the living room. To her surprise, he came to sit by her feet on the couch, and she cautiously stretched so that they rested in his lap. He didn’t move them.

“Hear what?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from sounding miserable and petulant.

“Our dear Mayor almost died in a fire. Someone should rewire City Hall, it seems.”

“I heard,” she nodded, and tried not to react when, absentmindedly, his hands came to rub her bare feet. It was such a sweet gesture, warm and intimate, entirely at odds with the mood she’d been in all evening, with his late arrival home and the silent ice of her empty bed this morning. “It was on the radio.”

“Biggest news since the Sheriff’s death, I’d wager,” he nodded, “and of course it’s good that it’s out there. Uncommon stroke of luck, Miss Swan coming off so heroic.”

“Mm,” Rebecca nodded, noncommittally. No matter how well he massaged her feet, or how nice it was that he was talking to her at all, spending time with her willingly, the mention of Emma Swan’s name left a sour taste in her mouth.

“Is something the matter, dear?” he asked, concernedly. He pushed her foot up, so it bent hard at the ankle, and she felt a muscle loosen. She sighed with relief, tension she hadn’t known she felt released at the motion, and it wasn’t really fair, was it? He was questioning her while she was vulnerable, while he did something that relaxed her, lulled her into the common intimacy of their marriage where nothing was kept secret, where no feeling was hidden long.

“Just a bad day, I suppose,” she replied, finally. “Nothing more.” 

 

___________________________________________

 

Very few people dared to approach the exiled Queen.

Regina knew that her name had long since been adapted to include ‘Evil’ in the title, and she didn’t really care less. All she was doing was biding her time until the stars were aligned and the moon was full, then she would cast a curse unlike any curse before.

The scroll was thick and heavy in her hands, the words burnt into her memory, and all she had to do was wait. 

That was why the missive from the house of Avonlea came as something of a surprise. She had heard of the kingdom that clung to the cliff tops on the Eastern Ocean, though it had been of little interest or use to her during her reign and even less after her banishment. It was an unremarkable little kingdom, by all accounts, and so she’d never paid it any mind.

The letter requested a meeting, which struck her as curious. 

The Lord and Lady of Avonlea were said to be the allies of Snow White and her gutter-born husband, and yet the letter was threaded through with honesty and integrity in every word. It was not a betrayal planned by the Lady of Avonlea, but simply a parlay.

Regina considered the message for a long while. It was true that she had a thousand and one enemies, but it had been a long while since she had spoken to anyone who was not her father, her mirror-snared genie or one of her legion of guards. 

She re-read the missive, gazing at it, trying to decipher its meaning, the intent behind it.

In the end, she agreed to a meeting, as much as setting foot on neutral territory galled her, and as a show of good faith, she agreed to come unarmed. How much, she wondered, did the silly, honest Lady of Avonlea know of her, if she believed anyone with magic was truly harmless?

The neutral meeting spot was on a strip of land that skirted Regina’s own territory and bordered that which had belonged to King George. It been annexed, Regina recalled idly, but then George always did push too hard and too fast. People didn’t like that.

The Lady of Avonlea was waiting, sitting in a small encampment. She appeared to be alone, and Regina smiled thinly, wondering how useful it might be to have the heart of someone trusted by the oh-so-beloved Snow.

She rose as Regina approached, striding across the rough grasses.

Regina was halfway to her, when there was a shimmer in the air, and she felt her knees weaken. A furious look crossed her face and she bared her teeth, raising a hand to cast a charm back at the little witch.

Nothing happened.

The Lady of Avonlea’s expression didn’t change, placid and neutral. “You said you would come unarmed,” she said. “That was the condition.”

“You blocked my magic?” Regina snarled.

“I’m standing on ground that is neutral,” the Lady corrected. “The terms of the magic binding neutral ground are fairly specific.” She spread her hands. “You can stay outside the boundary of the ground and be armed and I can hand you a chair, or we can be civil.”

Regina narrowed her eyes, her fingers twitching by her sides. “Civil,” she said. “About what?”

The Lady of Avonlea gazed at her, blue eyes clear and calm. “About Rumpelstiltskin.”

Regina stared at her, pretty, innocent little girl that she was. “What could you know about that demon?” she sneered.

To her astonishment, the woman averted her gaze. Ashamed? Embarrassed? Anxious? Regina wasn’t quite sure. The Lady of Avonlea took a breath, then looked back up. “He is partaking of Avonlea hospitality presently.”

“You’re the ones who have him penned up in a cage?” Regina smiled, amused. Oh, he would hate that. He always hated it when anyone tried to claw his power away from him. Her mother had learned it, to her cost. “I’d heard rumours, but you?” She looked Avonlea up and down. “Not a drop of magic in you.”

The Lady smiled quietly. “Sometimes, you only need a name and the right words,” she murmured.

Regina laughed, full-throated and with more than a hint of malice. “Oh, of course. And sometimes one only needs a helpful little fairy to help her along too, I dare say?” The Lady said nothing, and Regina knew she’d hit the mark. 

Of course, it made little difference to know what the Blue Fairy had been getting up to, considering the wide berth she’d always given Regina. None of this mattered at all, save the good fortune of now knowing where to find her one-time teacher. Could come in handy, she mused.

“Are you willing to speak openly, Regina?” The Lady asked, finally, and Regina wished for a moment that she could turn the impertinent little woman into ash. She had not been simply ‘Regina’ to any but her father in over a decade. Everyone called her ‘Your highness’ and then ‘Your Majesty’. Even the other names, ‘The Evil Queen’, ‘Witch Queen’ and so forth, had had a ring of fearful respect to them. Snow White called her Regina in her prison cell, but her voice had quavered. The Lady before her stood steady, calm, grave-eyed and unafraid. Regina’s blood boiled in her veins.

The Lady of Avonlea was a little princess who ruled a little rock on the Eastern coast: she was nobody. Certainly nobody to be addressing her betters by nothing but a forename.

The little lady must have noticed the ramrod straightening of Regina’s back, because she shook her head, and sighed sadly. “I am afraid I will not call you anything else. You’ve been banished, remember? And Your Majesty has no power to it at all.”

“I assume, then,” Regina smiled, a quirk of her lips with nothing but impotent poison behind it, “that your name will remain a mystery?”

“Indeed,” she inclined her head, “Now, will you talk?”

Regina took a moment to think on it, and then when her smile came there was genuine pleasure in it. The lady was certainly desperate for this little conversation, wasn’t she? And who knew better than Regina herself what complicated little knots Rumpelstiltskin could weave within a virtuous woman? 

When she nodded, at last, and seated herself in one of the little chairs the lady had brought for them, it was because she finally understood the little tableau that would play here. Here sat the old, broken puppet and the new, shiny, fresh one, set to discuss the master, and how he liked to pull the strings.

Regina, of course, was a puppet no longer. Not since she had broken free of her apprenticeship and stolen her own powers from his control. Not since she’d become Queen, and his equal, and now held the darkest curse in all the realms in her grasp.

She scrutinised the Lady of Avonlea, as she arranged herself in her own chair, and wondered how deeply Rumpelstiltskin had sunk his claws into this one. She certainly would be a temptation for him, beautiful in a smiling, fresh-faced way that Regina found sickening, and filled through and through with such honesty that it had bled through into the very words that had summoned Regina here. She hoped he was having fun: if she couldn’t destroy the little chit, then it was good to know that the task was safe in his hands.

“What did you wish to discuss then, child?” she asked, switching to the motherly smile and tone she had not used since the Huntsman had failed to murder Snow White. If one didn’t count that unfortunate incident with the woodcutter’s children, and Regina chose not to.

“Rumpelstiltskin’s character, mostly.” The Lady smiled warmly, almost as if she were embarrassed by the question and clearly lulled by Regina’s smiling cooperation. A good girl, but clearly one not endowed with much between her ears. 

Regina laughed. “My dear, he’s a monster, not worth the space it takes to lock him up. There’s little more to say.”

“He doesn’t growl and snarl as once he used to,” the Lady said, softly. “I thought that too, until-”

“Until what?” Regina asked, urgently. “What did he do, child?”

Blue eyes narrowed, but only a fraction. In thought, perhaps, or distraction. “He behaves well…” she said, tapping a fingertip on the arm of her chair. “Was he a man when you knew him? I heard you two were associates, once.”

“Ah, associates.” Regina nodded, smirking at that understatement. “You’ve heard the tales of my wickedness, I assume? All the stories the princess likes to make known?”

“Your reputation extends beyond what Snow makes public,” the Lady said, a little tartly.

“But you know of it?”

“All of it,” the lady agreed, “I would not have met you without having done my research.”

“Clever girl,” Regina crooned, a little impressed. “Well, then know this. Anything I have done, any blood I have on my hands, is only a small fraction of the terrible evil that monster has inflicted on this land. He is a creature of nothing but destruction, I assure you.” She smiled, and if it was bitter then so be it. “After all, who else would still stand my friend, even now?”

“He is not to be trusted?” the lady asked.

“He can be sweetness and light,” Regina said, gently, “when he chooses to be. How do you think he manages to make young girls and earnest men take his deals? He will stand as an ally until the time comes to pay the price.”

“And then?”

Regina smiled, wide and gleaming, “And then, child, you discover that the price is your heart, your soul, and everything you held dear. Anything that falls from his hands is diseased, hollow and empty.”

“He has not asked anything of me,” the lady objected. “Nothing I would not have freely given. If anything I have taken more from him than I have given.”

“Then trust him,” Regina shrugged, negligently. “Believe you can change him. Perhaps a pure heart and pretty face will succeed where none have before. Perhaps your kiss could break his curse, and true love will win out.” 

Perhaps the lady was only looking for a reason not to fear him, to reduce her monstrous captive to a man, no less fearful or terrible than the next. Perhaps she was looking for a favour, a reason to trust Rumpelstiltskin’s offers of help, and the line about true love was a waste of breath. Perhaps she would turn her face to disgust, act as a rational woman might, and reject the notion outright.

Perhaps she wasn’t interested Rumpelstiltskin himself at all. That made a lot more sense than the alternative: that someone could actually have a care for that monster.

“You think there’s someone underneath that skin?” the lady asked quietly, after a long silence, and Regina knew she had her. “You think that there could be a man inside?”

“Anything’s possible,” Regina smiled, all motherly warmth and support. She lowered her voice, and leaned in for the kill. The lady, caught on every word as a fish on a hook, leaned in to hear, ever so slightly. Regina had thought to turn Rumpelstiltskin’s pet into another fearful maid, and spoil his sport. Now, it seemed, she could inflict more damage by far. “And, perhaps, it would be worth a try. If he could be a man again, then he could be saved. If the kiss were to work, then true happiness would surely follow.” She tipped her head to the side, and added the final flourish as if as an afterthought, “For both that tortured creature and for the lady who kissed, him, of course.”

She wondered if she’d gone too far, as she sat back in her seat and watched her words hit. The lady could see right through the ploy, call a cold end to the parlay and walk away. It could all have been for naught, and Regina would return to her palace and have lost nothing at all.

But then the lady smiled, a little smile, secretive, and bit her lip as she, too, relaxed into the cushioned back of her chair. 

Regina was only sad that she would not be around in person to watch the fireworks. She was sure they would be spectacular.

__________________________________________

 

The election was being held at City Hall.

Rebecca didn’t really care about the outcome either way, but she felt she should really be there. Everyone did, though no one could give a good reason. 

Maybe it was to see the smile wiped off the Mayor’s face. Maybe it was to see the Swan girl realise that she really didn’t belong in Storybrooke after all. Maybe it was just because it was something new and different in a little town, where every day was like the one before.

Regina was sitting at the front when Rebecca arrived, and her husband was discreetly placing himself closer to the back. She was surprised he wasn’t behind the scenes, coaching Miss Swan in her final lines, a puppet master pulling the strings.

Rebecca stood in the doorway, wondering when she had become so bitter towards a woman she had hardly met. Or toward her own husband, for that matter.

For all she knew, he might really have the town’s best interests at heart.

For all she knew, he might be screwing Miss Swan in the back room of his shop.

For all she knew. That was the trouble.

Some part of her knew she should ask, should speak up, should be brave and confront the problem head-on, but that wasn’t her. She wasn’t a brave person, and confronting her husband again scared her. The last time, there had been that brief, delightful lapse into their relationship as it always had been, and just as suddenly it was gone.

She couldn’t bear to see it slip through her fingers again.

On the platform, Archie Hopper was testing the microphone. Rebecca stepped into the hall, tucking herself against the wall out of sight. The hall was almost packed to capacity, and all of them were watching and waiting to see who would win. It wasn’t a battle between Glass and Swan. It was between the Mayor and the man who owned the town and the second candidate. Everyone knew it. 

Glass’s opening statement was about as predictable as could be expected, but Swan’s…

Rebecca felt like her legs were turning to water beneath her as Swan accused him of setting the fire, for making her the unwitting hero in his pageant. She didn’t want to believe it, but when Alistair rose from his seat, when he turned to leave the hall, any bravery she felt scattered like dust in the wind.

Rebecca Gold fled out of City Hall, wondering what had happened to the man she had once loved enough to marry.


	9. Chapter 9

He saw Rebecca run from City Hall.

Alistair Gold was many things, but an arsonist was not one of them. That was purely Rumpelstiltskin, and now, it was Rumpelstiltskin who watched a woman shocked, sickened, betrayed, recoiling from him now that she saw what was at his heart. 

He should have gone home, but in some things, he was still a coward. Even if he returned to her, how could he explain his actions? Even if he told her about the curse, it was built so that she could not and would not believe him. If he was honest with her, it would only make matters worse.

He took refuge in his shop until it was late enough that she would be in bed, and listened to the news on the radio. Miss Swan had, of course, won. When caught between two evils, standing against them both made quite an impression. 

By the time he retreated from the shop, he saw that the celebration at the diner was only just winding down. Rebecca wouldn’t be there. As social as Belle had liked to be, Rebecca was frequently lonely. Because of him, he knew. No one wanted to be a friend to Mr Gold’s wife. 

He drove back in the direction of home, and was relieved to see that all the lights were off, including her bedroom lamp. She always went to bed early on nights when she had work, but as soon as he opened the door of the house, he knew that he had underestimated just how angry his wife was.

“You set the fire.”

She was sitting in the living room, in the dark, but reached over and put the lamp on. He could see that her eyes were reddened and swollen. Some time earlier, she must have been crying, but now, her expression was stony. She gazed at him, her hands folded in her lap.

“It’s late,” he said, flicking on the light in the hall.

“Did you do it?” Her tone was implacable. “Did you set the fire? Is it true?”

That wasn’t Rebecca asking. That was Belle, and whatever she asked him, he was inclined to tell her, no matter the consequence.

“It was necessary.”

“Necessary?” She folded her arms and looked at him, her eyes like ice. “What’s necessary about almost killing the Mayor? And what about the Swan girl?” She rose from the chair, staring at him as he deserved, as if he was something that should have knelt at her feet, begged forgiveness. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

His teeth ground together against the truth and he looked down at his hand. “Don’t you ever wonder at the stagnation in this place?” he said quietly, trying to keep his voice calm and even. “Don’t you ever wonder why nothing ever happens?”

“So you decided to make things happen?” she demanded. Her voice was not rising in pitch or volume. It was deceptively calm, and all he could see was the Lady of Avonlea standing before him, all ice-cool diplomacy beneath the façade of meekness that so many saw. It was the woman he knew and loved, and now, even without her memories, she was seeing his true nature, and she loathed it.

“I wanted things to change for the better,” he said quietly.

“I see.” She took a slow breath. “I’m going to bed. I… think it would be better if you took the guest room.”

It was the first time she had turned him away by her own volition, and as relieved as it should have made him, it was like a blade in his chest. He stepped back, leaving her a clear path to the stairs, and when she paused on the landing.

“I have an appointment with the ob-gyn tomorrow,” she said quietly. For a moment, he thought – hoped – she might allow him that. “I’ll call you. Tell you how it goes.”

“Rebecca-” He took a step towards the stairs.

She held up her hand. “No, Alistair. I… can’t look at you just now.”

He reluctantly nodded, watching her walk away. It was what needed to be done. She had to be at arm’s length. He had work to do and she couldn’t get caught in the crossfire. The first stage in assisting Emma had been successful. She didn’t yet realise, but she would.

One night’s rest was all he could have, and even that was broken by the thought of Rebecca. He didn’t even get as far as the guest room. He just lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling and wished to God that fate had played a kinder hand for both of them. 

The day dawned bright and clear, the harsh sunlight blaring in through the curtains and startling him awake. A look in the hallway mirror told him he looked a state, unshaven and dishevelled, but his clothes and grooming things were upstairs, in the bedroom and ensuite bathroom, and Rebecca was still up there. He couldn’t risk another confrontation, the polite ice she’d surely greet him with. Rumpelstiltskin had always been a weak man, and he couldn’t face that. He’d crack, crumble, fall down at her feet like the coward he was and beg her to smile for him, forgive him. 

Plans and endgames were well and fine, but it was hard to put them first when the woman he loved slept above his head, with misery and hatred for him in her heart.

He had a small shaving kit and fresh clothing at the shop; he’d change there.

The day was still in its infancy, cold and crisp and only just light, when he emerged from his front door and started for his shop.

He hoped there’d be no one about, that he could go unseen from home to work and appear for the world once more composed and clean. He hoped – prayed, begged, wished, whatever would work, whoever was listening – that the world would be empty and silent and leave him alone.

Rumpelstiltskin knew that he needed Rebecca to hate him. She was to have her child and be with her true husband: that was how fate had written it, and so that was how it was to happen. If he clung on tighter he’d only hurt them both. If he took what he wanted now, then he’d not even have Belle’s friendship, her understanding, when she awoke.

Rebecca loved Alistair, and Belle loved Gaston. That was the truth Rumpelstiltskin had to face, and no amount of trickery would change it. Magic could not create love.

He’d faced harsher truths and seen far worse in his time, and he would do so again. He’d put on a fresh suit and be the implacable Mr Gold once again, but this morning he needed to feel the hurt he’d have to ignore later. He walked without hiding his expression, without pretending to be more or less than exactly what he was, had always been: a desperate soul, wandering the world and frantically wishing for more than he could ever hope to receive.

But apparently, the universe would not grant him even this moment of peace. His eyes were fixed blindly on the path before him, allowing Alistair Gold’s feet to thoughtlessly trace the path he’d walked a hundred times before without question. He did not see the new Sheriff across the road, taking an early morning stroll. But she saw him.

“Gold?” she asked, and that caught his attention, her voice ringing in the stillness of the morning. He stopped, closed his eyes and sighed. The last thing he needed, right now, was the Saviour.

“Yes, Sheriff Swan?” he said, around gritted teeth. She was crossing to speak to him. The world really did hate him.

“What happened to you?” she asked, half concerned and half curious. Revelling, somewhere inside, at his misfortunes, he supposed. He was the villain of the piece, after all, and she the dashing hero.

“I have not yet found time to put on my face, Sheriff Swan,” he snapped. “We cannot all of us roll out of our beds and be dressed by bluebirds.”

Emma, to his surprise, laughed, and did not comment on his reference to her true parentage. “Not a morning person, huh?”

“Indeed, not,” he sighed. “Any way, are not congratulations in order? A landslide victory, if Sydney Glass’ dispatches are to be believed.”

She smiled, smugly. He was glad he’d be able to wipe that victory from her face in a few moments: just because he was technically on the side of good in this battle didn’t mean he’d stand for his chosen hero’s crowing. Especially when she thought that he stood among the defeated.

“Yeah, seems this town has a little integrity after all,” she said, with that same smug smile.

“Indeed, lucky thing you had two villains to triumph over,” he said, mildly. Then, catching her little glance of surprise, his eyes met hers and he smiled, the smirk of a predator with the prey in his grasp, and enjoyed the way the smile fell from her face. “It is fortunate, isn’t it, that you had such a chance to put yourself above us both?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, and he resisted the urge to laugh aloud at the resemblance to her father. Bravery and pureness of heart were certainly family traits, but none of her line had been burdened with an overabundance of brains. 

“I mean, Sheriff Swan, that you stand as the only person in town, my wife included, who would have approached me this morning. You’ve stood opposed to Regina these past months, yes, but that’s not enough. The whole town is afraid of her, but they’re more afraid of me. A public display, in defiance of us both: that was your winning ticket.”

“You…” He could almost hear the cogs grinding in her head. “You tricked me. You set me up!”

He chuckled, forcing the sound from his lips. It was just another part, another costume, though it seemed harder today to maintain. “You wanted to be Sheriff, did you not?”

“Not like this!”

“Did you do anything against your free will?” he asked. “Anything you would not have done on your own?” 

“Why?” she hissed, still trying to gather her thoughts. “Why would you do this?”

“That’s my business. You asked to be Sheriff, and now you are.” He patted her shoulder, and started to walk past her, toward his shop. “Rejoice in that fact, Miss Swan. Today is your day of triumph.”

He heard her swear, and that drew a genuine smile to his lips. It wouldn’t do to have the Saviour becoming complacent and trusting the wrong people.

In the quiet darkness of his shop, he closed the door behind him and locked it, leaving the sign turned to closed. He had no business he intended to do, and it was only when pangs of hunger knotted up his stomach. He set down the inventory lists, checked that he had his façade of uncaring bastard back in place, and made his way out into the day.

The diner was hardly a high class establishment, but he was tired and he was hungry, and it would do.

It seemed like fate had far too ripe a sense of humour.

The moment he opened the door of the diner, he caught the scent of Rebecca’s perfume, wrapping around him like a gossamer cloak. She was at the counter, paying for what appeared to be a sandwich, and she turned and saw him. 

His mask slipped. It might as well have been made of glass. It slipped and shattered.

Rebecca stopped dead, and he heard the rustle of the paper bag as her hand tightened on it.

“Alistair,” she said.

Gold nodded curtly. It wasn’t out of rudeness or hostility. He had no idea what to say.

That, it seemed, made things worse.

The whole diner was so silent that he could have heard a pin drop. Rebecca drew herself up, all dignity and bravery, and stalked around him to get out the door. It slammed closed behind her, and everyone in the room around him seemed to be holding their breath.

Gold made his way towards the counter, bracing his hand against it. He hoped he didn’t look like he was leaning too hard on it, but his legs were trembling beneath him.

“So,” Granny Lucas said, setting down a dishcloth. “Your woman finally sees you like the rest of us, huh?”

Gold wished he had some retort, some biting, sharp comment to take the wind from her sails, but he was tired and she – damn her to the seven hells – was right.

_________________________________________________

 

The council met rarely.

There had been little progress in how to stop Regina, and the war had petered out in the wake of the defeat of King George. That didn’t mean there was peace. Not by a long way. Regina’s footsoldiers harassed the borders and Red was sent out more often than not to push them back.

The Widow Lucas would have preferred to be out on the frontline herself, but she knew that wasn’t a possibility anymore, not when Snow was growing heavy with child and had no mother to guide her through the trials of maternity.

Still, she kept her crossbow by her side, even when she sat knitting a blanket for the Royal baby.

“We should go down,” Snow White said, rising from her seat. “The Lady of Avonlea should be arriving any moment now.”

“Worried about her?” Widow Lucas asked, though she already knew the answer.

Snow White nodded grimly. “She was meeting Regina. I don’t believe that can ever end well.” She rubbed her back with a since. “She promised she would stop here before continuing back home.”

Widow Lucas got to her feet, setting down the knitting and hefting the crossbow up. “If she’s lasted this long with that demon around with her sanity intact, I think she’s strong enough to face the witch,” she said, as they made their way out of the room.

Snow White was silent for a long moment. “We’ll see,” she said, as they descended the staircase to the audience chamber.

The Lady of Avonlea was already there. 

Widow Lucas had met her on two occasions, the last of which when the Lady of Avonlea had been given guardianship of Rumpelstiltskin. The woman looked thinner than she had, but there were rumours of poison and treachery against her. It might not have been the influence of the imp locked in the basement. 

“Your Majesty.” The Lady turned a warm smile on Snow White. “I hope I find you well.”

Snow White moved towards her, holding out her hands. “Well enough,” she said, grasping the Lady of Avonlea’s gloved hands. She searched Belle’s face. “You had a peaceful meeting? She told you what you needed to know about Rumpelstiltskin?”

The smile that turned the Lady’s lips caught the Widow Lucas’s eye. It was calm, quiet, satisfied and self-assured: hardly the expression of a woman who was the keeper of a monster. “She provided much information that I can use,” the Lady said.

“That so?”

Snow White glanced at Widow Lucas, startled by her interruption, then back at Belle. “I think what Granny means to say is that you might not be able to trust her.”

Blue eyes fixed on Widow Lucas. “Your concern is very kind,” Belle said, “but I know better than to put my trust in someone who has been so ruthless and vindictive.” She inclined her head. “However, I will trust my instincts and my own experiences.”

“Don’t you forget what you have in that basement of yours, girl,” Widow Lucas warned. “We’ve seen what he can do.”

“I’m well aware,” Belle said quietly. She looked at Snow White. “May we talk unchaperoned?”

Widow Lucas could tell when she was being dismissed. “I’ll be outside the door,” she said. She could feel the Lady of Avonlea watching her as she walked away.

“She means no harm.” Snow White sighed. “It’s nothing personal, Belle.”

“I know,” Belle said quietly, “but there are some things I would want to speak of for your ears alone.”

Widow Lucas closed the door, giving the Ladies their privacy.

__________________________________________________

 

Alistair didn’t say another word to anyone in the diner, save to order his lunch and pay for it. He gave the most perfunctory, unwilling nod of thanks he could muster to the hard-eyed woman behind the counter, and walked out without another word.

He’d never know what it was about Belle that had always so thoroughly disarmed him, but Regina couldn’t have done him a favour and taken it away when she made Rebecca, could she? No, instead Rebecca retained that uncanny knack for slipping under his scales. She had lost the bravery and conviction to do it on purpose, the intuition that had meant that, once there, she could do some real good, but she could see past the mask, to whatever lay beneath. She just had no way of coping with what she saw.

Belle had seen it, whatever it was, and decided it was worth salvaging.

Rebecca only saw it and became miserable and confused: she liked simple things, his wife, routine and order and rules. Like everyone else in Storybrooke, anything that didn’t fit within Regina’s tightly drawn lines was unwanted, even frightening.

Rumpelstiltskin had never fit within anyone’s lines.

And Belle, wise and good and brave as she was, had never needed them to begin with.

He’d been waiting for this fear and confusion from her since that first day in his prison cell. It made no difference to his inner demons that Rebecca was mostly fiction, that it wasn’t really Belle.

He shuffled back to his shop, and was glad that he’d started hiding his essentials in the back room when he’d first awoken, those months ago. He couldn’t go home yet, not until Rebecca and he came to a new truce, or she left. One would happen or the other, he knew: this was an aberration, not a holding pattern. One of them would have to break: he would come to terms or she would run. 

It was funny how in the other world it was always the other way around. She came with an olive branch and a deal, and he skittered away into the shadows, a shadow himself and terrified of how she shone.

He stayed the next few days in the shop, sleeping in the back and washing in the little bathroom. He slipped back into his home when Rebecca was at work to steal a clean shirt or two and an extra tie, to collect his mail and take a shower. 

She didn’t catch him or come to find him; he didn’t go home when she was in, or walk within three blocks of the school.

They’d been married twenty-eight years, after all: he did know her routine.

Emma Swan came by, though, four days into this new lifestyle, and he had to smile then. The feeling felt a little alien on his face: he’d little to smile about, these days, after all. But the stubborn, reluctant plea in her expression was pure gold. She needed something from him. The Saviour, down off her high horse and needing his help, like her parents before her.

The name of Hansel and Gretel’s father was a small price to pay to get her back onside.

He didn’t want her to trust him completely, but tolerance would be essential in ensuring that Regina was her main enemy. Wouldn’t do for the Saviour to have her efforts split.

Emma left with Michael Tillman’s name in her back pocket, and a mission – to reunite lost children with their estranged parent, an appropriate aim for this woman – in her step.

Gold slumped against the counter, the effort of smiling like a snake and thinking his usual ten steps ahead leaving him shaky.

He needed a stiff drink, a long sleep on his own feather mattress, a night on his settee with a pair of delicate, trusting little feet in his lap, and a head on his shoulder.

He settled for staying very, very still, and waiting for the tremors to pass. Apparently living like this was a strain on an old, human body, and he’d reached his limit.

He went for a walk that evening, intending to perhaps end up at Granny’s and get himself a proper room there. Instead, he ended up passing his own home, his route roundabout and instinctive. It was where he wanted to be, after all. He couldn’t blame his feet for doing what his head was too scared to attempt.

He passed it slowly, noting the light on in the front room, the little signs of life going on. It was good to know that Rebecca was safe and down for the night, he thought. There was another car parked outside, as well, and for a moment he wondered if perhaps she’d surpassed his expectations, and already invited her real husband back home to her.

He’d thought that Greg Aston would drive something a little more macho and heavy duty than the sedan parked by his own black Cadillac, but Regina did have something resembling a sense of humour.

He stepped closer, needing to be sure. It was fated, after all: he needed to know how far along they were in the timeline. That was all, not jealousy or anger or suspicion. It was just plain curiosity, nothing more.

There were no distinguishing marks on the outsides, and a peer in the windows revealed no bags or clothing, nothing that would give away the identity of the owner. Someone was in his home, with his wife, and if it was Belle’s husband then he was glad for them, in his own way.

But he wasn’t sure if it really was Greg, and if Regina had a car, or any of the other unsavoury characters in town, then Rebecca alone would be a prime target.

He had to make sure. He was never a knight in shining armour, but daring heroics or pure brutality would not be out of the question if someone had come for her. Even just to talk, to tease and manipulate, or to offer the deal he was too afraid to propose. 

But without going inside, the car was offering no information.

Finally, he knew what he had to do. He walked around, through the back gate and down to the shed, using the light of his cell phone to light the inside as he searched. Finally, his scrabbling fingers found what he sought, and he grinned in feral triumph when he laid hands on the tools he needed.

He returned to the driver’s side door, and leaned down, trying to pick the lock open. A combination of the little tools and a few wenches of his plan B – the trusty crowbar Alistair Gold had used for far more honourable pursuits – had the door swinging open, and he almost crowed his victory. 

He reached inside, and up under the sun visor, pulling it down. Sure enough, there was the drivers’ license, where any unimaginative adult would keep it.

The car’s owner was Kathryn Nolan. David’s neglected wife, the daughter of King Midas. A friend of Rebecca’s, he remembered, and then felt foolish.

“Alistair?”

He froze in the act of closing the car door, and turned slowly on his heels, the last person he’d wanted to see stood right in front of him. Rebecca’s arms were folded, her face a mix of confusion and annoyance, verging on rage, and he couldn’t blame her. Her own husband, who had hidden himself from her for days, had just been caught breaking into her friend’s car in the dead of night. It was not a situation many people, he thought, would take in stride.

“Ah,” he sighed, rendered for once entirely speechless. He rested on his cane, braced between his feet, and waited.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, taking another step closer, and her eyes narrowed. “With a crowbar?”

“It is my home, dear,” he said, “I can do repairs as and when I choose.”

“It doesn’t count as your home if you haven’t been home in four days,” she said, coldly. Then she seemed to gather what was going on, and her voice rose, her eyes widening. “Or if you’re breaking into guests’ cars with a crowbar! What the hell were you thinking?”

“I saw an unfamiliar vehicle outside, and it is my house,” he replied. “I will not be stolen from, and for all I knew it was a burglar.”

“For all you knew it was another man in your bed,” she spat, and he winced. “Don’t lie to me, Alistair. You took off and I haven’t seen you in days, and you come back only to break into my friend’s car?” she shook her head, “You’ve no right to any of it. None at all.”

“I was protecting what’s mine,” he snarled, and stepped closer.

“And does that still include me?” she asked, and the tremor in her voice belied her carefully cool tone. She was close to tears, and he’d done that. He felt lower than the dirt beneath her shoes.

“You walked away from me, Becca,” he said, softly. “Didn’t come looking after, either. I was unwelcome, remember?”

“Alistair, you torched a building!” she cried, but her voice matched his, low and quiet. “We’re expecting a child, and then you burned down city hall!” They were close enough, now, that he could reach out and hold her if he chose. But he didn’t. He had never had any right to do that, and now even Rebecca would cringe away.

“I hurt no one.”

“You all but rigged an election!” she said, her voice rising as she got more agitated, “For what? To get Emma Swan, a stranger in this town, into her job? And you’re jealous of me having strange people over?” She shook her head, her hair swaying in its long braid down her back. “You know what, fuck the Sheriff all you like, Alistair. Leave me and our baby and go off with the bit on the side. Just don’t bust into my friend’s cars in the dead of night. Ring the damned doorbell if you want to know who’s visiting.”

She stormed away, but he caught her by her arm and turned her back around. 

“What?” she demanded.

“You think that?” he asked, shaken. “That that’s why I did it?”

“You spend all your time plotting or conspiring with her, you see her all the time…” Her voice was rising in pitch, distress written all over her face. “Alistair, she’s beautiful and daring and exciting. I’m bland and boring, I’m getting all fat and pregnant… the little wife at home.” She laughed brokenly. “Of course that’s what I think. You didn’t want the baby, not really. You’re just too scared to admit it.”

“Rebecca…”

“Don’t deny it,” she said, drawing herself free and lifting her head. So proud, so brave. “Please, Alistair, you owe me that much.”

He could deny it, he knew. He could scream from the rooftops that he’d never love anyone like he loved her; that he’d never so much as looked at another woman since they met; that he’d love her until he died. He could tell her that the child in her belly would be loved by its father more than almost any other child ever born, and that if he had his way they’d be a family, happy and in love and forever. 

But that would all be too much truth for this little lie of a town. Belle belonged with her Sir Gaston, and if Rumpelstiltskin told her all of that then she would never leave him, and never stray back to her true husband. Worse still, Belle, when she returned, would know the truth and be repulsed, and he’d lose even what little good will he’d garnered before the curse.

“I’m sorry,” he said, instead. “For everything.”

She sighed, and nodded. “We used to know each other so well, Alistair Gold. Has it really come down to this?”

“It seems it has, yes.”

“Look,” she said, folding her arms over her chest, “you know what I want, Alistair. What is it that you want?”

He could have written a book on the answer, he knew. He wanted his son back in his arms, and the world to leave them to their peace. He wanted Belle, entirely herself and knowing everything, with their child in her arms and home with him. He wanted the curse to break and Regina to settle into a quiet life of penance, and Charming and his family to go away and leave him and his alone. He wanted power and magic and the ability to keep and hold and protect all that he held dear. He wanted to be the man he was, small and weak but good, again, although he knew the one contradicted the other.

He wanted everything, but the words choked and stuck in his throat.

“I want to come home, Becca.” It came out as a whisper. “You don’t have to play the happy wife anymore, but I want to come home.”

“You always could, Alistair,” she said, softly. “Come back tomorrow, and the guest room will be made up.”

“Thank you,” he said, and walked away without another word.


	10. Chapter 10

Rebecca watched her husband leave, and felt every ounce of strength she’d had in her drain and fade. Her shoulders slumped, and she nearly staggered forward, the urge to simply fall in a heap on the ground and sob almost too much to bear.

“Becca?” Kathryn’s voice came from the front doorway, and Rebecca didn’t turn. If she turned Kathryn would know something was wrong, and she didn’t have any idea how to explain what.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Kath,” she called back, trying to hide the thickness of her voice, the sniffle she gave as she tried desperately not to cry. “Don’t worry!”

To her dismay, she could hear Kathryn’s footsteps on the porch stairs, her friend walking quickly to her side despite how clearly unwelcome she was. Rebecca would be fine: she had been fine these past days, after all, hadn’t she? Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

“Hey, you alright?” Kathryn came around her side.

“Yeah, yeah,” Rebecca nodded, and swallowed hard, “Fine.”

“Who was it?” her friend asked, “What happened?”

Rebecca couldn’t lie for him, she wouldn’t. And after the stunt he’d pulled to get Emma Swan elected, it wasn’t as if anyone in town wouldn’t believe it. The truth came to her lips without a second thought, “Alistair.”

“Oh, honey,” Kathryn put a hand on her shoulder, “What’d he do?”

“He… um…” she smiled, so close to tears, her voice quavering. “He was jealous. Saw a strange car outside, lights on… he claims he was being protective but I swear he thought I had a guy over. You might need to bill him for a wrecked car door.”

“He broke into my car?” Kathryn asked, incredulously. 

“To find the driver’s license, apparently,” Rebecca agreed her voice flat and dull, the most she could manage without breaking. “He’s gone now.”

“Bastard,” Kathryn muttered, and looked closer at Rebecca’s face. Rebecca was nodding, her jaw clenched, but tears were finally spilling down her cheeks, and she couldn’t keep it in any longer, try as she might. “Oh, Becca, I’m so sorry.” 

Kathryn gathered Rebecca into a tight hug before she could say another word, and Rebecca felt herself break then and there, holding on as tightly as she could and sobbing openly into Kathryn’s shoulder.

They stood for a long moment like that, Kathryn stroking Rebecca’s hair, and Rebecca trying not to leave too much mess on Kathryn’s shoulder.

They made it back inside the house somehow, Kathryn’s arm never leaving Rebecca’s shoulder, Rebecca never truly stopping her tears. It was the damn pregnancy hormones, she thought groggily. They were making her emotional when she needed to be clear-headed and calm.

She had an iced tea waiting for her by the sofa, and Kathryn picked up her wine as she sat down, taking a long sip. “It’s too bad you’re pregnant,” she commented, “you look like you need this more than I do.”

“I was never much of a drinker,” Rebecca replied, although she had to admit being blissfully and obnoxiously drunk right about then would have been welcome. “I’ll pay to replace the door, don’t worry.”

Kathryn laughed sharply. “Oh hell no, we’re taking this to the man himself.”

“He broke in because I didn’t go and explain in person.”

“He broke in,” Kathryn corrected, “because he’s a jealous asshole. He’s paying for it: he made you cry and he broke my car door. You’re not paying for any of that.”

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca tried again, weakly, and Kathryn shook her head. 

“You shouldn’t be. It’s not your fault your bastard husband actually cares what you do and who you’re with. David doesn’t even know I’m here tonight. He went for a walk half an hour before I came out, and I left a note to call me when he got in…” She picked up her cell phone and waved it, her smile as bitter as Rebecca’d ever seen it, “No call, no husband.”

“David has other things on his mind,” Rebecca pointed out. “It can’t be easy, coming back to yourself after so long in a coma.”

Kathryn hummed in agreement. “Yes. That and the fact he’s not married to a woman who can actually make him smile and mean it. Mary Margaret’s a lovely girl, don’t get me wrong, but…”

“Hey, hey.” Rebecca shifted over, bumping Kathryn’s shoulder with her own. “I know her, okay? She wouldn’t do that. If they’re friends, then it’s good for David to have more than one anchor in this town to build his life around. She is a hospital volunteer, remember? She’s just trying to help a man in need.” 

Kathryn snorted into her wine, “Yes, that’s some after care she’s offering.”

Rebecca giggled, and then sobered, the silence stretching a moment before she sighed, low and long. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? But hey, count your blessings! At least you didn’t find out you were pregnant right as he started to pull away!” She was trying to joke, but it fell flat even to her own ears.

Kathryn turned, her expression bleak. Rebecca’s smile fell from her face as fast as it’d come, and she wrapped an arm around Kathryn’s shoulder. “What happened?”

“I… um… I missed two months,” Kathryn swallowed, hard, her voice thin and high, quavering. She didn’t sound like herself at all. “So I… Regina helped me go to the drug store and buy a test. Just to be certain, you know.”

“Oh, god…”

“I haven’t taken it yet,” Kathryn continued, in a rush, “I just… I don’t want to until I know what I want the outcome to be.”

“Do you… are you and David ready for a baby?” Rebecca couldn’t keep the scepticism out of her voice: a baby was no way to win back a husband. Her own collapsing marriage was proof enough of that.

“I don’t know,” Kathryn broke into open crying, her words coming out as little sobs, “I just… I’ve always wanted a family, you know? And David would be such a good father. We weren’t unhappy before. We had talked about children… before, too, but I doubt he remembers now.”

“You don’t sound happy about the idea, Kath,” Rebecca said, gently.

“If I’m pregnant I’ll keep it,” she said, firmly. “I’ll make the best of it, you know? Regina’s a single mom and she does just fine. But if I’m not… I’ll be so relieved. But Becca, if I’m not, what happens then?”

“Then you keep going,” Rebecca shrugged. “Trust me, dealing with… all of this, it’s so much worse knowing that I’m going to bring a baby into the mix. I want my child, lord knows I do, and I’m thankful every day, but it makes everything with Alistair so much worse.”

“Is he really leaving?” Kathryn said quietly.

Rebecca nodded, unable to do anything else when faced with the harsh truth of it. As much as he wanted to come back to his home, he was a stranger to her now. Her husband had walked out the door weeks before. She just wished he would come back, but it felt like a hollow dream. 

Nothing would bring him back, make things the way they were before. Not even the baby they’d prayed night and day for could bring him home properly. And for the first time, Rebecca didn’t even know if that was such a bad thing.

“I don’t know what changed,” Rebecca said, “but something did. Something in him: he’s not the man I married anymore.”

“I know the feeling,” Kathryn sighed, “but at least he still cares enough to be jealous.”

“He’d do the same if someone stole from his shop,” Rebecca said, bleakly. “I’m starting to think he can only truly love his things, his possessions. And I’m not that. I never was.”

“He still loves you, though” Kathryn said, softly, even a little enviously. “Even if it’s like that.”

“I know,” Rebecca nodded, “But it isn’t enough anymore.” A hand crept down and rested on her slightly swelled belly, and she found herself smiling, ridiculously, “And anyway, if you are pregnant, and our husbands fail us and nothing goes right, we should just co-parent. Raise our newly-bastardised children together.”

Kathryn giggled, wetly, and took another gulp of wine, draining her glass. “We could scandalise the town, the women who live together and have two children, and yet do nothing but chatter and take turns on the washing up.”

“You could drive them to soccer practice, and I’ll make them read,” Rebecca said, warming to her theme. “Do you want to be good cop or bad cop?”

Kathryn laughed outright, “You can be bad cop; I want to be the fun parent.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch if you bring them home on a sugar high,” Rebecca warned, but she was glad to have brought a genuine smile to her friend’s face, and to her own. Kathryn laughed again, and poured another glass from the bottle at her elbow. 

They clinked their cups, iced tea and white wine, and continued their plans without another word of absent husbands or pregnancy scares. And if Rebecca kept her eyes on Kathryn and her mind on the conversation, she could almost forget both. Almost.

She felt better the next day. Not happy, per se, but calmer, knowing she had someone in town who was willing to watch her back. So many people recoiled from her just because of her husband.

It did make her wonder if opinions would change if he left her high and dry with a child on the way, or if people would just think she deserved it.

Still, working side-by-side with Mary Margaret, she found herself watching the other woman a little more closely than she otherwise might have done, wondering if Kathryn’s suspicions had any grounds.

She doubted it, because Mary Margaret lived a virtually nun-like existence, but she had been mistaken about people before. She had been mistaken about Alistair. She had believed, once, that he was looking for more than a prize, something pretty to parade around. She had believed it right up until he found his new beautiful golden-haired trophy, stronger, and quicker, and tougher than meek little Rebecca Gold could ever be.

“Becca?”

Rebecca started. “Sorry?”

Mary Margaret was looking at her, concern on her face. “Are you all right? You were looking a little out of it.”

Rebecca looked at the woman she thought she knew so well and smiled the same quiet smile she always did. “I’m fine,” she lied. “Just thinking.”

_______________________________________________________

 

Snow White wasn’t surprised that the Lady of Avonlea wanted to talk privately.

Red’s grandmother could skewer a person with a look as sharply as she could pierce them with an arrow. 

Something in the older woman’s tone suggested disapproval of Belle’s methods. The Lady of Avonlea was known to be a kind soul, gentle, and people often overlooked the fact that kind didn’t necessarily mean weak. 

Belle approached the fireplace, looking down into the low flames, holding out her hands to them. 

“Did it help at all?” Snow asked, following her and sitting down in one of the two chairs laid out for them. “Speaking to her?”

Belle continued to gaze into the flames. “It gave me food for thought,” she said, reaching up to undo her cloak. She drew it from her shoulders and draped it over the back of the other chair before sitting. “Her reputation is well-founded.”

Snow folded her hands over her belly. “We’re only hoping that this curse she’s trying to concoct is too much for her,” she admitted. “It’s been nearly seven months, and nothing has happened yet.”

Belle smoothed her riding skirt over her knees, watching her hand. “She doesn’t seem particularly focussed,” she admitted. “She was ready to lash out at me at the least provocation. Is she always…”

“Once, she wasn’t,” Snow said quietly, overcutting Belle’s words. As much as it pained her to think on it, she didn’t want to hear someone insult the woman who had been her mother for nearly a third of her young life.

Blue eyes looked across at her, some strange emotion visible in them. “Do you think it’s possible,” Belle said, her voice quiet and speculative. “If people have done terrible things, do you think it’s possible for them to make amends? To change their ways?”

Snow had to look away, remembering that bitter, heart-breaking moment when she had set Regina free out of love, and Regina had taken a knife and would have killed her there and then. After everything, even after their encounter in the forest, when Regina had come to her disguised as a peasant woman, she would have killed her.

“Once, I did,” she said, so softly, she could barely hear her own voice. A horrible thought was creeping up on her, a reason for the Lady of Avonlea to ask the question, something terrible and twisted and horrifying. She looked across at the other woman, stared into the clear, calm blue eyes. “Sometimes, a person is beyond saving.”

Belle didn’t flinch or turn away, but her expression changed, tensed just enough to let Snow know that she had hit the mark.

Snow sank back in her chair, staring at the woman before her.

Charming had brought back all the news from Avonlea, when he had visited. He told her of Belle’s seat in Rumpelstiltskin’s dungeon, that the woman sat day and night with the imp who had played with them as if they were pawns on some dreadful chessboard.

“He saved my life,” Belle said quietly. “The price he asked was one with no worth to anyone.” She leaned forward, one hand in a fist on her knee. “Why would he save me, Snow? What cause could he have, when I’m his jailer?”

Snow felt sick to her stomach. “I don’t know,” she said, “But don’t trust him. He turns people into puppets and makes them dance to his tune. Even behind bars, he’s dangerous.”

Belle sat up straighter. “So people keep telling me,” she said, rising from the chair and pacing across the floor. “I can’t help but feel that people take one look at me and think I’m some kind of fool.”

“We’re women,” Snow said with a rueful smile. “It’s our lot in life to be underestimated.”

Blue eyes pinned her back in her chair. “Even by other women,” Belle said quietly. She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I know he’s dangerous, and I know he has done terrible things, but he’s lonely and old and desperate.”

“Can you be sure?” Snow asked quietly. “He wears a different mask depending on who he’s talking to.”

For a long moment, Belle was silent, then she smiled. It was a soft expression, but sure and strong. “I’m sure.”

Snow regarded the other woman for a long moment, unsure of what exactly she was looking at. She thought, although she hated to think thus, that perhaps if someone asked her if she was sure, in her soul, that her Charming loved her truly, then she would wear than same expression in her answer.

She didn’t, couldn’t, know how much of this was trickery, how much magic, how much misguided but honest sentiment. But she did know that it would be a great wrong for such a strong, pure soul as Belle to be corrupted by the dark.

“Could I ask you a favour, Belle?” she asked, leaning forward a little, trying not to seem as if she demanded anything. Belle tipped her head to one side, listening and considering without agreeing.

“You may ask, your Highness.”

Snow waved a hand, “My name is Snow, Belle: I was too long in the wilderness to be a princess to my equals.”

Belle smiled, inclined her head, “All right, Snow. What do you need?”

“I’d like to come back to Avonlea with you,” she said, “I’d like to talk to Rumpelstiltskin myself.”

Belle thought for a moment, and then shrugged her slim shoulders. She was slimmer than she’d been before, Snow thought, almost skinny. The monster had much to answer for. 

“I thought you would at some point,” Belle admitted, and then spread her hands. “Come back with me, then, you’d be most welcome.”

“Thank you,” Snow took Belle’s hand in both of her own, and shook it.

The ride to Avonlea was two days at a good lick, even with her pregnant self confined to a carriage with Belle, and they reached the palace as night was falling. Snow brushed aside all offers of a rest, a wash, even a chair to sit in, with the admonishment that she’d sat for days, weeks, months. She could stand for five minutes.

She winced, she couldn’t help it, when she saw Rumpelstiltskin’s cell. For all that he had tricked poor Ella, and likely aided Regina; for all he had turned her own heart cold and loveless with magic, and almost made her a murderess, Snow had an odd amount of respect for the creature now trapped behind the Blue Fairy’s bars.

He was a clever thing, and older than the hills. And she could think of nothing he’d ever done that hadn’t been agreed upon by the victim. The dice were weighted, yes, but he was never the one to throw them.

“Rumpelstiltskin?” Belle called, and when the creature turned he looked so much the man, for a second, that Snow stopped in her tracks. He wore an expression of nothing so much as happy relief, the same as Charming would wear, she knew, when she returned to him in three days’ time.

When he saw her, however, his eyes sliding from Belle’s smile to Snow’s cautious frown, he started to dance and giggle, to preen.

“Ah, Snow White!” he trilled, “It’s been a long time, princess, come finally to gloat?”

“You know why I’m here, Rumpelstiltskin,” Snow said, and flicked her eyes meaningfully to Belle.

“What, not worried about the Queen? The witch you allowed to roam free while I rot in prison, who even now plots your demise? You come to police my behaviour when she runs amok in the outlands?” 

“Rumpelstiltskin,” Belle said, calmly, and to Snow’s surprise the Dark One ceased his speech immediately. “Be nice, we have a guest.”

“Actually, my Lady,” Snow said, carefully avoiding the use of Belle’s name in front of the monster, “I’m feeling a little faint from the road. Would you mind fetching me water, I know the guards would rather keep out of the cave if they can.”

Belle knew a request to leave a moment when she heard one, and she nodded immediately, casting a warning glance to Rumpelstiltskin as she left.

As soon as they were alone, Snow advanced on the cell. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Rumpelstiltskin,” she snarled, allowing all of her anger, her protectiveness, the tigress she knew she would be for her daughter, too, to show. Belle was sweet and good, innocent in a way Snow knew she’d never be again. She would not allow another evil creature to ruin a young woman. Not while she breathed, not with her blessing.

“But what?” He cut her off. “You’re warning me, Snow White? You’re telling me to leave the little lamb alone?”

“I’m letting you know that there’re worse places than this,” Snow said, lowly. “There’re darker caverns and crueller jailers. The Lady of this castle is a kind soul and she sees something worth saving in you. Don’t make her regret that, or I’ll make you regret the same.”

“How?” Rumpelstiltskin spat. “The little princess who rode a little horse and fell into a witch’s arms. You couldn’t execute the woman who killed your father and wrecked your people and their lands. You’d let me walk free before you’d make me suffer.”

Snow smiled, and knew, then, that Rumpelstiltskin was enough of a man to know what she meant. Enough of a man that her mother would have wanted her to be good to him, as she was supposed to be good to all creatures.

“You would have mocked any other person I could have spoken of, if they had said they wanted to save you.” Snow smiled, as mean a smile as ever she had, “You wouldn’t have questioned my threat; you would have shamed and threatened her. You know she’s the one who matters in this equation, not me.”

“The lady of this castle will bleed at my feet,” he vowed, but Snow had spoken with him, dealt with him, too often before, and he knew the guardedness and trickery in his eyes. Just as he had when she had asked why he wanted Regina to live: there was something there that was secret, something she wasn’t meant to see and yet definitely did.

“You saved her life, Rumpelstiltskin,” she said, softly. “You won’t kill her, not after that. My warning is not in case you kill her, but something worse. Be careful. If I come back I’m bringing Charming and his sword.”

“Oh, I am quaking in my boots,” he sneered, but she just laughed.

“However you feel or don’t for her, remember that she alone in this world cares for your comfort. That’s a rare thing. Destroy it, and you’ll regret it.” 

The door creaked, and footsteps told of Belle returning. Snow smiled when she saw her, and took the proffered glass of water from her hand. “Everything all right down here?” Belle asked, warily, and Snow nodded.

“I found out what I needed,” she agreed, “And now I need to rest.”

“All right,” Belle nodded, and took her arm. She looked back to Rumpelstiltskin as they left, and called, “Sleep well, Rumple! I’ll be back in the morning!”

Snow was certain, as they left, that she heard a “Goodnight, my lady, sleep well,” murmured in response.

But of course, she thought with a secret smile, Rumpelstiltskin was only after her blood. Of course no part of him would want the heart that beat it instead, and want it safe and warm and even loving. No part at all.

 

______________________________________________________

 

It should have felt right to be going home to her husband, but even as she packed up her things, Rebecca felt apprehensive. It wasn’t just that Alistair had been so weirdly possessive, but he was being downright criminal in his behaviour.

Once, his eccentricities, his little oddities, had been endearing. Now, though, he’d set City Hall on fire. He’d seen a car parked outside his house and broken into it, as if that was a normal thing that a normal husband would do. And all the while, he’d started treating her like a stranger. It was like living with a completely different man. 

None of it was making any sense, and as much as she hated to admit it to herself, it was starting to alarm her. The night before she’d been in shock, tired, and trying to reassure Kathryn: the fear had passed her by. She hadn’t felt afraid until she came to work in the morning, and started to think about had actually happened, about how if he could burn buildings and break cars how long would it take before he started on people? How long until she displeased him, and he took it out on her?

The night before she’d been thinking of him as Alistair, as the man she’d married, the man she still loved. He was still the man who had made everything safe and warm, a home for the two of them, happiness and love, and she had defended that man even after all he’d done.

This morning, the man she married had faded in her memory, and when she thought of her husband all she saw was burning buildings, broken mental and that horrible wild snarl he’d worn last night, when he saw her. All she felt was sick, shaking fear, and she didn’t want to go home to face that.

She rubbed at her eyes, wishing that the hormones would stop being a hair trigger for tears, and approached the door.

“Becca?”

Mary Margaret was there, waiting in the corridor.

Rebecca tried to smile, but she was tired and she was unhappy. “I need to get home,” she said. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk?” Mary Margaret said softly. “You’ve been in a world of your own all day, Becca. You look like hell.”

Rebecca wrinkled her nose. “Thanks,” she said, her voice breaking. The damned tears were coming again and she pressed a hand over her eyes. “Christ.”

“Oh, Becca!” All at once, she was wrapped in Mary Margaret’s arms. “Is this because of Mr Gold? Is it because of what he did?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Rebecca said, her voice thick with tears. Her arms were wrapped around her bag. “I can’t go home. I-I can’t be in the same house as him.”

Mary Margaret drew back. “Do you want me to drive you to Granny’s? I can go by your place. Pick up some stuff for you.”

Rebecca stared at her, then slowly nodded. “Can you take me to the Nolans’ house?” she asked tremulously. “Kathryn. She said I could stay.”

For a moment, a strange, almost guilty expression crossed Mary Margaret’s face, but she nodded. “Of course,” she said. “Come on. We’ll get you there safely, and you don’t need to worry. Mr Nolan can go and get your things.”

Rebecca could only nod unsteadily and wipe at her eyes as they made their way down the hall.


	11. Chapter 11

One night at Granny’s wasn’t a hardship.

He got there late, after his encounter with Rebecca. Late, because he chose to walk. He chose to walk, because he needed the cool air to clear his head. He’d broken into a damned car because he thought she was doing what he had been trying to make her do for weeks.

There was no reason to be ashamed, he told himself, because he was doing what was necessary, but nothing could quite brush her horrified expression from his memory. He had been waiting for it, as long as he had known Belle, but it had never quite happened. She had stared at him, glared, rolled her eyes, taunted him, laughed with him, but never had he seen her look at him with fear.

He wasn’t surprised that he barely slept. 

The next day, he went through the motions, opening the shop, glaring at would-be customers, and trying to gather himself to go home early, to be there when she got in from work. He knew it was undermining everything he was trying to do, but as much as it hurt having her there, it hurt even more for her to be at a distance. 

Out of some perverse need to make amends, he picked up Rebecca’s favourite food from the store, then headed back to the house. It was locked, still, so he let himself in and made his way to the kitchen. Cookery wasn’t his strong suit, but it was close enough to alchemy for him to manage to put together something that his wife liked. 

He was still working on it when he heard the front door open.

It was ridiculous, how much his heartbeat quickened, just knowing she was back in the house, and he wiped his hands, took a breath and headed towards the door.

It wasn’t Rebecca. It wasn’t even a woman.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?”

David Nolan’s broad shoulders tensed, and he looked at Rumpelstiltskin. “Rebecca asked me to come by and collect some of her things,” he said tersely. He had a hold-all in his hands and a grim expression on his face. “She’s staying with Kathryn and I for a little while.”

Rumpelstiltskin stared at him. It felt like he was listening to words being said in a strange language that he was having trouble understanding. “What?”

“I’d say it was pretty clear,” David said, sounding more like the gallant Prince dashing to the rescue than the insipid, watered-down version he had become. “Your wife needs a time out, and we’re giving her somewhere to stay.” He nodded to the stairs. “Which room is hers?”

It was one thing to walk into a man’s home uninvited. It was another thing entirely to act as if it was not his castle, his domain, and Rumpelstiltskin’s hackles rose. He stalked towards Nolan, leaning on his cane.

“You think you can just come into my house and take my possessions?” he snarled.

“They’re not your possessions,” Nolan replied. “They belong to your wife.”

Rumpelstiltskin snatched the bag from his hand and hurled it out of the open door. “If she wants her things, she can come and get them herself!”

If he had been Charming, the man would have swung his fist or a sword. But he wasn’t, and the curse was still in place. He stared at Rumpelstiltskin like he was a dangerous animal, then went to the door and fetched the bag. “Your wife wants her stuff. If I can’t get it, can you get it for me? She doesn’t want to see you.” 

Rumpelstiltskin was breathing hard, trembling. Belle had never run away from him or hidden from him or been afraid to face him, but Rebecca was. She was hiding from him. She was taking refuge in the home of a woman she never knew in the forest. He wanted to drive her away, he thought bleakly. He just didn’t realise what a good job he had done.

Silently, he took the bag and went up the stairs. He filled it with some of Rebecca’s favourite clothes, her comfortable pyjamas over her frilly nightgowns, and a handful of toiletries from the bathroom. If his hands were shaking, he could pretend that they weren’t, as he pulled the zipper closed.

He descended the stairs and thrust the bag at Nolan.

“Get out of my house.”

Nolan didn’t say anything, just turning and walking away. 

If he had spoken, Rumpelstiltskin wondered what he might have done. There would have been blood, for his captor, for the man who had tried to make his imprisonment little less than torture, the man who treated him like a dancing bear, there to perform whenever he was needed.

Rumpelstiltskin retreated to the kitchen. The dinner was burnt beyond recognition.

Silently, he sank down into one of the chairs by the table and buried his head in his hands.

She was gone. 

The thought played like a mantra in his head, like a drumbeat, around and around, never stopping for a moment. She was gone and he’d driven her away. And he’d done it on purpose.

She was meant to be with her husband, he thought, desperately. 

The problem was that, somewhere deep in his soul, he felt that he was her husband, and not the oafish knight who had claimed her hand in the other world. Who else, he thought desperately, who else had nursed her in sickness, loved her in health? Who had brought her back to life, when all hope was lost, when the knight’s own kin had tried to end her? Who had given her a child, of all things, the one thing in the whole world she most wanted, when even the doctors of this world had said it would be impossible?

Their marriage had come from a curse. He knew that, he was painfully aware of that. And he wouldn’t have ever been Belle’s choice, not even if she had been free to choose.

He fought the ridiculous urge to laugh. If Belle had had her own choice, he had a feeling she would have been out in the world, adventurous and free of all entanglements, slaying dragons and sailing oceans. She would not have hidden, never.

He’d forgotten that the woman Alistair Gold had married was not Belle, not strong and capable and more than ready to walk alone. Rebecca needed support, she was delicate and soft and fragile, and he could have surely helped her on her way without driving her so far from their home.

He’d sworn, once, that he’d break Belle into a hundred sobbing, bleeding pieces.

And, he thought bleakly, Rumpelstiltskin always kept his promises. 

He was on his feet before he knew what he was doing; his car keys were in his hand and out he was of the door without a second thought. He had to just explain, he had to see her and make sure she knew that he didn’t mean it, that he was sorry, that he had never wanted her to get hurt and that he would do all he could to make it better.

He got as far as Main Street before he remembered his premonition. Belle would be with her husband and the baby, that was a certainty. She would never choose him: he was a monster she had been kind to, not a man she had chosen to be with. Not a man she’d ever love.

He’d proven that, hadn’t he? He’d threatened and burned and bullied her away from him. 

And the worst thing, the thing that made him pull up on the side of the road, the thing that had him staggering into the forest like a dying thing, like he was heaving and bleeding and falling to pieces on the floor, was that it had none of it been an act. He had not had to talk himself into burning the town hall, into breaking Kathryn Nolan’s car, into being the bastard he had been for months now. All he had done was obey his instincts. And he had scared her into leaving her home behind, and hiding with virtual strangers.

He was a monster, and he’d known that, but to have her see it too broke whatever fragile strength he’d had left.

He left his car by the road and staggered home on foot. The house was empty, cold and echoing, hollow. A house that had been filled with Rebecca’s perfume, and the warm sounds of people in love, and he’d managed to make it just another dark cavern for the Dark One to fester in.

He didn’t eat. He went straight for the Scotch, and drank until it was dark outside and he needed his cane for more than just his bad leg. He drank until the air swam, and Belle’s laughter – not Rebecca’s little chuckle but Belle’s throaty, full-bodied laugh – rang in his ears. She’d hate him now, wouldn’t she? When she woke up, Belle would know who he really was, who he’d always be. She’d hate him as much as if he’d kept her here. She always would have.

He had been fooling himself, he thought dully, as he drained his glass, when he’d thought she’d be his friend again when the curse broke. He’d had her tied to him against her will, he’d let Regina distort and twist her heart until she thought she loved him. Of course she’d hate him: why would anyone do anything different?

At ten he stumbled upstairs, and his head swam even as he saw what he must have dropped earlier.

He’d meant to shove Rebecca’s blanket into the bag with everything else. She’d had it since she was a child, she’d told him once, and needed it to sleep. He’d never thought much of it, but now it lay on the floor and he knew, deep, deep down, that she needed it. This was something he could do for Rebecca, he thought, with a desperate kind of joy. Something he could do for her, and not for Belle: for the woman he’d shattered, who’d never done anything but love him.

For the second time that day, Rumpelstiltskin shuffled from his home, and made his way to the Nolan house. It was a long walk, and the cold air sobered him enough that, by the time he was at their front door, aching from the exercise and the cold and red-cheeked, he could almost pretend not to be drunk at all. 

He rang the doorbell; David answered.

“I told you,” he said, rudely, “She doesn’t wanna see you.”

“And I don’t want to see her,” Rumpelstiltskin lied, angrily, “But she left her blanket and she’ll not sleep without it.”

David looked, stunned, from Rumpelstiltskin’s glassy eyes to the folded white wool in his hand. “Oh.”

“Look, her mother made it for her as a child and died soon after. She’ll be miserable without it, and I…” he sighed, “I don’t want that. I really don’t.”

He was looking at his feet, unable to show weakness, even now, in front of the man who’d locked him away in the dark, who’d made himself his enemy. Even though David Nolan was no more than a weak-minded fool, even though he knew nothing of their past.

He didn’t see the little shape appear in the hallway but he heard the little gasp. “You brought it.”

He looked up, startled, and found David pushed aside and Rebecca grasping the blanket in both hands, holding it to her chest. It was a detail Regina had added for no good reason, but he thanked her for it anyway. He could make Rebecca’s fall a little softer, her pains a little easier, her load a little lighter. Just a little, just increments and technicalities, but it was something. 

“You can’t sleep without it,” he said, again, and she nodded.

“Thank you.”

There were tears in her eyes; he worried they might find their match in his.

“Take care, Rebecca,” he said, softly, “sleep well.”

She nodded, and he could see the apology, the reasons, the sadness in her eyes without her having to say a word. Belle had been a master of hiding her thoughts, but Rebecca wrote them on her face plain as day, and he thought if he asked she’d probably come with him, home, back to the place where he’d made her so unhappy, and where she’d always wish she’d stayed gone.

He started down the stairs, down the street, into the dark, and she didn’t stop him.

Why would she? He thought, numbly, it was where he belonged.

 

___________________________________________________

 

Rumpelstiltskin did not like to be questioned. He did not like to be challenged, not when he had no way or means of lashing out at the person who had offended him. Especially not when the person in question was the mother of the most precious cargo imaginable. 

Snow White’s visit had surprised him, not least because her husband was so stubbornly determined to turn his little bandit into a modest, proper lady. No doubt Charming had no idea that the little Princess had turned up in his cavern. What pregnant woman would face a demon known for trading infants? A foolish one.

He growled under his breath.

A ridiculous one, spouting flights of fancy and all kinds of nonsense.

He dragged his claws along the bare stone of the walls, leaving furrows. He’d scratched and clawed at them so many times, he sometimes wondered if he could tear his way out, even though this was exactly where he needed to be. When the time came, when the Prince and his little Princess finally asked for his help, he had to be waiting. He had to be patient.

Air hissed between his teeth and he slunk into the darkness.

Snow White had implied… what? Could it be possible that she imagined he was capable of human feeling? Of… love? He kicked the slop bucket and it rattled across the floor, but did little to ease his temper. If she imagined he had a weakness for the Lady of Avonlea, just because he had chanced to save her life…

A bitter curse slipped from his lips.

What did it matter what he felt? Women had shown time and again that he was never going to have the right to be loved as he wanted to be. Strong, brave, bright women didn’t love cowards or monsters, and he was marked well as both. Good women didn’t love the beasts closed up in cages.

He threw his head back and howled.

She came, then, quickly. 

She cared for his welfare, as Snow White had so astutely observed.

Rumpelstiltskin shrank back into the darkness as the Lady approached the cage.

“Rumpelstiltskin?” she asked, her voice gentle as ever. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong, dearie?” he sneered. “Why would anything be wrong?”

She sighed, drawing the chair closer to the bars. “This is because of Snow White’s visit, isn’t it?” she said, sitting down, and propping her forearms on her knees. “Did she say something to upset you?”

He leapt up from the floor, capering towards the bars, daring her to shy back. “She came to warn this old monster away from you, dearie,” he said, baring his teeth. “She seems to think I have some wicked and cruel fate in mind for you. Peeling your skin off with my claws or rending your throat with my teeth.”

The Lady snorted in amusement. “Hardly imaginative,” she observed, settling back comfortably on her chair. “I can come up with far better than that.”

He curled his fingers around the bars. “I could make your blood boil,” he whispered, his voice, low, sibilant. “I could drag the breath from your lungs until you were on the verge of death and hold you there.”

She waved a hand. “And you could hang me upside down until all the blood ran to my head and my brain ruptured,” she said. “Yes, yes, I know.” She studied him, then rose. “Stay here,” she said.

It was her favourite quip, and despite himself, he rolled his eyes and bit down on a snort.

She returned several minutes later with a tray. Unlike the usual clay cups and bowls they gave him, this tray was laden as if she was taking tea with polite company, a white tea set with a blue pattern set out on the tray. Teacups. Saucers. A teapot. All very civilised, all very polite and proper, and when she held out a cup to him, he snarled, and knocked it from her hand.

It would be easier, he thought, if he could put his gentle companion from his mind, and simply hate the Lady of the castle. Much more difficult, when he could no longer remember that they were one and the same, one woman whose demise he should be planning with precise delight.

She sighed, bending to pick up the cup. “It’s chipped,” she observed. “My best china.”

Rumpelstiltskin scowled, feeling like a chastised child, and said sullenly, “It’s just a cup.”

She looked at it. “I suppose so,” she agreed. She refilled it and offered it to him again. He scowled at it, baring his teeth. His Lady gazed at him patiently. “I can treat you like a beast, if you want, and pour it into the saucer, but you and I are having tea together.”

He snatched it irritably, drawing back into the darkness.

“What do you want?” he asked. “You have your honoured guest upstairs.”

She set her own saucer in her lap and cradled her cup in her palms, warming them. It was always cold down here, he thought. How cold must she be to depend on tea to warm her? And yet still, she came. 

“My Royal guest is happy enough,” she said. “My unfortunate prisoner is not.” She looked at him. “You know I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, Rumpelstiltskin.” She sipped the tea, watching him. “Is there anything I can do to make things better?” 

She meant it in all innocence, but for Rumpelstiltskin, with Snow White’s merry-eyed accusations ringing in his ears, it became a loaded question. _Nothing_ was the simple answer. He had to be weak for Regina to believe she’d won, for Snow and her Charming to think him harmless. He had to be weak, and if he sat in a plush suite, with a bed and streaming sunlight, his books and his treasures, no one would think him anything but the towering presence he always had been. Regina would falter; Charming and Snow would go on the defensive.

Nothing was the simple answer, because she had already done far, far more than she should have, than he could have wished for, than he even deserved.

He was a monster in the darkness: no matter his reasons, his plans, that was the truth of it. It being his design, a long-planned scheme to find a lost little boy, meant little. He was a killer, a thief, a demon. And yet, the Lady of Avonlea sat before him, and informed him that they were to take tea.

It was not a trick, not a trap, not a ploy for trust or information.

She was just a woman who wanted… what, exactly? To comfort the beast? To ease through penance some burden on her little soul? 

He wanted to think so, but he did not. He thought, deep down in his black heart, that despite it all she was here because she saw a suffering man, and wanted to heal him. And, perhaps, because she too was unhappy in her cage, and needed a friend.

Two words never applied to Rumpelstiltskin, ‘man’ and ‘friend’. But if he were a gambling man, at that moment he’d bet his treasures on the Lady calling him both.

He wanted to trust that, but he couldn’t. Because Milah had done that, and then Cora, and countless whores and desperate women in-between, and all of them had lied. In the end, they all betrayed him, called him weak and monstrous and left, and they had always intended to. 

“No,” he said, at last. “I think not.”

“Hm.” The Lady didn’t sound convinced. She looked to his chipped teacup, a little smile on her rose petal lips, “Are you planning to play at drinking tea, then?” she asked, after a moment, “Or would you like the real thing?”

He gave her a half-hearted scowl, and danced back to the bars, offering the cup through the bars so that she could take it back. He couldn’t touch her skin, of course, but the cup could pass because she willed it, and it was magically harmless. Just a cup, he’d said, and so it could carry the slight warmth of her fingers, the tremble in the tips, back to him.

She filled it from the pot, and with a glance to him added milk and a lump of sugar along with it. It felt an indescribable luxury, Dark Castle be damned, to hold bone china again, to sip hot, sweet tea from an actual cup, and he smiled and hummed with pleasure.

“I knew there was something,” his Lady said, smugly, “tea solves most problems, I find. Could most likely resurrect the dead, if put to the test.”

“Mm.” Rumpelstiltskin smiled in agreement, and thought, absently, that in this moment if she were to reach through and run her hand through his matted mess of curls, he might even start to purr.

He froze, shook his head, scowled. There was something in the tea: there had to be. He felt so warm and soft and comfortable, it had to be a trick.

“How do I know it’s not poisoned?” he asked, after a few moments, and to his surprise his Lady laughed.

“You saved my life, Rumpelstiltskin,” she reminded, gently, “and poison cannot kill the Dark One anyway, or so it is told.”

“Mm, and plenty have tried,” he confided, and her eyes widened, another laugh escaping at his wrinkled nose and derisive sneer. 

“And failed, and good thing too,” she agreed, setting the teacup down, and he snorted.

“You’d be the first to think so.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she said, softly, “you’re a lot easier to like than you think, Rumple.”

She said it so sweetly, so firmly, that for a moment he didn’t notice that she’d called him a nickname. The name other woman had claimed years before. The name Regina sometimes used, when she thought it necessary to call forth their years of association, of strange, stilted, twisted friendship to her aid. It sounded so much nicer, softer and more pleasant, coming from his Lady’s lips. If she wanted to call him that, he’d not argue.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, and then sneered. “But perhaps not, perhaps you have simply spent so much time with the monster that your mind has become warped. I told you I could break you, dearie, perhaps this is all part of the plan.”

Again, the insolent woman laughed at him, “You’re not a monster, and I’d like you on sight, no matter what.”

“Oh?” He was a little bit entranced by the image presented, by the idea that it could truly be so, as he had always admired pretty lies from innocent mouths. 

“Don’t believe me?” She shrugged, smiled, and rose to her feet. “Very well. I’ll prove it.”

Her hands went to the skirts of her pale blue dress, and she looked him squarely, deliberately in the eyes as she curtseyed deeply, “Greetings, Rumpelstiltskin, I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Belle, of Avonlea, and I’d like to be your friend.”

He stared at her, floored. In all his dreaming, all his twisted scheming, he had never thought to have her name. It was a powerful card to play – it could be used for spells against her, now, he could make all sorts of mischief and cause so much pain with a name, freely given and freely used – and she did so, why? To make him trust her? To lead him into a trap?

No, he bowed low to her, at the waist, matching her as she rose from her deep curtsey, and her laughter, free and light and musical, proved it. She told him to gain his trust, yes, but also to cement her point. Friends had to be equals, and naming made them so. She wanted his _friendship_ , and Rumpelstiltskin, who had bargained with the highest prince and the lowest slave, who knew the value and price and purchase of every emotion, every commodity, every person in their world, had no idea at all what such a thing should cost.

So he did as she did, and laughed with her, not the Dark One’s eerie giggle but a genuine chuckle, a man’s laughter, deep and real. He gave her his friendship freely, because she paid in advance.

She left soon after, having to see to Snow White’s departure the next day, and Rumpelstiltskin found himself still clutching his now-empty teacup.

He curled in the corner of his cell, and huddled around it like a dying man to his last fire, like a child with comfort blanket, like he’d never let it go. It was a gift, given to him by a friend, who smiled in the dark and forsook her own good sense, her own safety, to prove that her friendship was genuine. It was a gift from _Belle_ , and that made it a treasure all of its own. The only one allowed to a monster in the dark; the only one he truly needed.

_____________________________________________

 

He should never have drunk the scotch. 

Control was what he needed, especially with matters as such a crucial stage. Self-pity was all well and good in its place, but not now, not when the world was balancing on a knife-edge, and it could still go either way.

Then again, Regina shouldn’t have sent her precious spy after Rebecca.

Sidney Glass was hiding out in the bushes around the back of the Nolan house with a camera. Rumpelstiltskin only knew it because he’d made a circuit of the house to make sure it was safe. It obviously wasn’t. He took care of the camera, and was in the process of taking care of Sidney as well, when he was interrupted.

 

He didn’t care about being arrested. He didn’t care about being shackled and dragged away as Sidney was loaded into an ambulance. He didn’t even care that his hands were bruised and grazed. All he could see was Rebecca’s face, staring through the window of the Nolan house, watching him, knowing what he had done.

It wasn’t just the scotch, he thought. 

As morning crept up on him, the hangover was impressive, but his behaviour couldn’t just be blamed on the drink. Glass was keeping eyes on Rebecca for Regina. Glass was trying to find her weakness. Glass was a pawn in the hands of another player, and that pawn was threatening his wife and his child.

“Want some water?”

Gold didn’t open his eyes at the Sheriff’s voice. “No. Thank you.”

He ignored her, sitting in silence, his back to the wall, trying to put Rebecca’s face from his mind. She looked sickened, horrified, and afraid. All the work of the blanket, undone by his own stupid temper.

Heels clicked on the floor outside his cell. “You don’t look well, Mr Gold,” Regina murmured.

He opened eyes that felt thick with grit. “Madam Mayor.” He glanced beyond her. “I see we’re… alone.”

“Women who want to be mothers will take any opportunity they can, even if it means letting a prisoner be illegally interviewed,” Regina said with a mild smile, perching neatly on the arm of the small blue couch.

He closed his eyes again. “And is that what this is? An interview?”

“You beat up Sidney Glass, Gold,” Regina murmured. “The charges could be… problematic, if brought.”

“Your little pet was spying on my wife,” Gold said through gritted teeth. It wasn’t playing a role, when she expected him to be possessive of the woman who was meant to be his sex object. Regina believed he hated his former guard and, had wanted to punish her by taking her freedom from her, as his own had been taken from him. “I don’t like men looking at my things.”

“Many more will, if you’re locked up in here,” Regina pointed out. “She’s a pretty girl, your wife. Men like pretty girls. Especially when the girl in question likes a bad boy. Who knows? They might want her to do the worst things imaginable.”

Gold didn’t know how he went from sitting to suddenly standing, his hands wrapped around the bars, his eyes blazing. “You’re not going to let that happen,” he snapped.

“And why not?” she said sweetly. “You’re in here. She’s out there.” She leaned closer to the bars, and he could have reached out as he had before, wrapped his hand around her throat, squeezed the life from her. “Give me one good reason to leave her be.”

He stared at her, and she met his eyes, challenge in her expression. She knew. Or, at least, she suspected. That was what this was all about. That was why Sidney was there. That was why she was here now. She thought he was deceiving her.

“What do you want?” he asked in a low voice. 

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You know.”

“I’ll need the specifics,” he said coldly, biting down on the ‘dearie’ that instinctively leapt to his lips. 

“Your name.”

He curled his lip in derision. “You know my name, Regina.”

“I do,” she replied, “but I want to hear you say it.” He saw the way her nails were cutting into the couch beneath her. “And remember what’s at stake here.”

He stared at her, remembering another cell, another woman, another name being used to curry favour. Then it had been sweetness itself, nectar and honey and wine, and he’d smiled for hours in the little dark corner of his little, dark cell. Now it tasted like ashes and lime on his lips, and he spat the word into the air, hoping Regina would choke on it.

He bared his teeth. “Rumpelstiltskin.”


	12. Chapter 12

Rebecca had no idea why she’d come when Emma Swan called.

She had every right to put down the phone. Alistair deserved everything he got at this point, and she thought that the image of him beating poor Mr Glass half to death in Kathryn’s back garden would be seared permanently into the backs of her eyelids. If she hadn’t feared his newfound temper, his sudden volatility, already, then she certainly did now.

He’d almost killed a man, and he’d done it while she watched, outside her safe place.

She still didn’t think he’d hurt her directly, but it was enough to make her believe that to be close to him was to invite danger on those close to her.

But still, she went.

Rebecca Gold was still Alistair Gold’s wife, and someone had to go and ask the bastard what the hell he’d been up to. It was that fire; uncharacteristic as it was useful, that drove her to the police station. She blamed the pregnancy hormones: if they could make her cry at the drop of a hat they could at least have the decency to give her some backbone with it.

“Mrs Gold!” Emma cried in surprise, and Rebecca wondered bitterly how much of her life had filtered from David to Mary Margaret to her roommate. Gossip travelled fast in a small town, apparently. Having been the centre of speculation for years, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised.

Everyone had thought that this had been the state of affairs for the past ten years. No one would believe her, especially now, if they knew that this was a new development, this distance, this fear, this burning anger.

“I didn’t expect to see you!” Emma continued, and Rebecca tried to ignore the way Alistair’s head had shot up at the sound of her name, how intently he was watching her with those wide, surprised dark eyes.

He hadn’t looked that surprised since the day she’d confronted him in the kitchen, and they’d made love on the chair. The memory caught in her throat: how could she have possibly thought everything would be okay after that? She’d mistaken the beginning of the end for the start of something better. She was a fool, when it came to him, but no more.

“My husband is in prison, Sheriff,” Rebecca replied, stiffly, “I’d like to see him.”

“Of course!” Emma nodded, “I um, I’ll go get some coffee-“

“No.” Rebecca’s eyes had finally rested on her reprobate husband, but she raised a hand to stop Emma in her tracks. “No,” she repeated, softer, “Please, stay? A closed office door will do for privacy.”

She noted the hurt that flashed over Alistair’s face with a relish that was both well earned and entirely unwelcome. She shouldn’t revel in his discomfort, but he’d brought them here: she no longer wanted to be left alone with him, even with the bars in the way. 

Emma looked uncomfortable, too, but also sympathetic. She nodded, and settled behind a closed office door to do her paperwork.

Emma would hear nothing and see everything. Alistair couldn’t move, and Rebecca knew she could leave at any time.

Some of the instinctual fear receded, and she could sit on the sofa arm before his cell with a certain amount of composure, her booted feet crossed at the ankle, her hands held close in her lap.

“Rebecca,” he said, softly, a slow exhale of breath.

“Alistair,” she replied, calmly. They sat in silence, tension thick and suffocating around them. Neither of them knew what to say, how to do what needed to be done. She came, she thought, only to ask why he’d done it, what Sydney Glass had done to offend him. That was all.

“Are you… how are the Nolans treating you?”

“Well, so far they’ve damaged no property, landed no one in hospital, and actually talk to me over dinner,” she said, sharply, and she didn’t expect the venom that came with it but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t remember being so angry in all her life. She felt she’d been proven a fool for seeing good in him, for ignoring the town’s cry of ‘monster’ and believing there was a good man inside.

There had been, once, of that she was sure. But something had happened to him, and now there was this violent, caged, malicious creature in his place. Her heart ached for missing her husband, but he was not the man before her, his hands on his knees, his suit rumpled from two day’s wear and his chin stubbled as she’d never seen it.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Becca,” he said, slowly. “For everything.”

“That’s nice, Alistair.” She nodded, coldly, “Now mean it.”

“Becca-“

“No,” she cut him off, a hand raised, “No, don’t try. If you were sorry you’d have stopped months back. You’d have explained why you were cold, why you were hurting me, why,” she swallowed hard, “why you never touched me anymore. If you were sorry I’d not be sleeping in a friend’s guestroom right now, and you’d not be in jail.”

He looked like he wanted to say something. She watched the words, whatever he’d hoped to say, catch and die in his throat.

“Can you explain, Alistair?” she asked, and she hated the hope in her voice, but she’d not be Rebecca Gold if she could not forgive. “Please? Can you make this all better? Because nothing’s right anymore, and I can’t help feeling it’s all your fault.”

A hand had strayed protectively to her swollen belly. She was five months on now and showing, and the look of utter longing on his face felt like the first honesty since she’d fallen pregnant. 

A few tears slipped from her eyes. She let them fall.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, slowly, and that, at least, felt like truth. “I… I have things I need to do. A plan in motion-“

“Is this about money?” she half-gasped, “God, Alistair, are you in some kind of criminal trouble? Is that what this is?”

“Not money,” he assured her, quickly. “We’ve always been comfortable, haven’t we? I just…” He fiddled with his fingers, his wedding band. “I wish I could explain, but I can’t.”

“You always say that,” she scolded, frustrated beyond belief. “Alistair, what could be so bad that you can’t even tell me? That you’d drive our baby and me out of your life because of it? And don’t say you just don’t love us. Don’t even try. I can see it all over your face.”

“Rebecca, I’ll always love you. I’ll love our child. But that’s not enough anymore, is it? You’re too scared to even be in the room alone with me.”

“You nearly killed Sidney Glass,” she said, around a hoarse throat, and he nodded.

“I did. He was taking shots of the house, surveillance of you and the Nolans, looking for secrets for Regina. Blackmail against me, likely as not, or trying to prove you were being unfaithful to hurt me. I had to stop him.”

“We have a Sheriff.”

“I lost my mind,” he replied, “I was trying to protect you, angry that thus far I’d failed. I lost my mind.”

“You lost yourself,” she corrected, “months ago. You broke Kathryn’s car and you didn’t come home, you worried me half to death for days… I have to know I won’t get another call telling me you need bail. That next time it won’t be a murder charge.”

“If someone tries to harm you-“

“Then I’ll call the police.” She shook her head, and stood, knowing what she had to do and hating that she couldn’t do it. Her wedding ring would remain until she could bear to remove it for good, and even now, that wasn’t today. “But my safety’s no longer your concern,” she said, coldly as she could, one hand still splayed on her belly. “You’re not the man I married, so you can take your protection and save it for someone who wants it. I don’t.”

And with that, she walked away, with one tearful nod to Emma and a shaky hand on the door handle. Kathryn was waiting outside, God knew how she’d known to be there, and Rebecca fell into her arms and sobbed.

It was as if Alistair had died, lay cold in the ground and gone; it was like her heart was breaking all over again.

It didn’t get easier, and Kathryn didn’t try to lie to her and pretend that it would happen overnight. Even after she knew he was out of jail, walking around, she didn’t go looking or go home. The Nolans told her the guest room was hers as long as she needed it, and that meant she was there when Kathryn’s world came crashing down around her ears too.

David Nolan was having an affair.

It was suddenly official, and everyone knew. Mary Margaret didn’t deny it when challenged, and the Mayor produced photographs confirming it. Kathryn was shattered. David was desperately apologetic.

In the end, it was Rebecca who showed him the door.

“I guess it’s good that I’m not pregnant, huh?” Kathryn said morosely, cradling her glass of wine, not the first of the evening. She looked at Rebecca, startled and embarrassed. “Oh, Becca, I didn’t mean…”

Rebecca shook her head. “I know,” she said.

They were curled up in their pyjamas on the couch, some dumb romantic film playing on the television. They’d stopped watching it the minute a much younger woman started giving doe eyes to the hero who – they both agreed – was about as attractive as a plank.

“What are you going to do?”

Kathryn swirled the wine in her glass and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “We’ve been here, in our house for years now, and it felt like I was meant to settle down, have kids, be happy here, like it was all planned out for me, just waiting to happen.”

“And then everything got turned on its head,” Rebecca murmured. “Life’s a bitch.”

“So’s Mary Margaret,” Kathryn declared, then looked appalled at herself. “Oh, I shouldn’t say that.”

“Why not?” Rebecca said, nursing her own cup of tea between her hands. “She stole your husband.”

Kathryn’s expression grew more solemn, and she leaned over, setting the glass on the coffee table. “No,” she said, “she didn’t.” She ran a hand over her face. “I saw the photos Sidney had been taking. I saw them together. There wasn’t any stealing going on. She didn’t take anything that didn’t want to be taken.”

Rebecca looked at her, startled. “David went to her?”

Kathryn’s smile was brief, sad. “You should have seen how happy they looked together,” she said. “The way he smiled at her. He never smiled at me like that.” She pushed her fingers through her hair. “Maybe this is a good thing. For all of us. I know he wasn’t happy, and even if I pretended, I wasn’t either. My husband never came out of that coma.”

“He’s that different?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Kathryn murmured. She looked at Rebecca. “I think this is the universe trying to tell me I need to stop moping about. That it’s time I had a fresh start.”

Rebecca smiled. “You’re ready for that?”

Kathryn shook her head. “No,” she said, “but who is?” She wrapped her arms around her upraised knees. “Maybe I’ll go away for a few days. Have a break, then decide what to do.”

Rebecca leaned closer and clasped her hand. “Whatever you decide, you know I’ll be here.”

“You could have a fresh start too,” Kathryn suggested, softly.

Rebecca’s smile faded. She could. She could walk away, leave Storybrooke, and never look back, but as much as she hurt, as much as she wanted Alistair as far away from her as possible, she was still carrying his child, and she couldn’t – wouldn’t – take his child away from him.

“Not yet,” she said. She smiled crookedly. “Packing up and skipping out of town when I’m pregnant doesn’t sound like it would be fun.”

Kathryn squeezed her hand. “What are we like?” she said.

“Free?” Rebecca suggested, though the word felt strange on her lips, as if she was saying her marriage had been a prison. Of course it hadn’t. Alistair had doted on her. They’d truly loved each other, for as long as it had lasted.

But Kathryn smiled, stronger and brighter than before. “Free,” she said softly. “Yes.”

Rebecca didn’t take back the words, but she mulled over them as she crept into bed that night. Free. She lifted her hand, looking at the wedding band still wrapped around her finger. It felt like betrayal to even consider taking it off, but then he was the one who had pushed her aside, dismissed her, turned from her, become someone else she didn’t know.

It slid off her finger easily.

There should have been some resistance, something to show that no, she was wrong, that she should go back to him, that they were meant to be together. It didn’t, though. It slid off and when she laid it on the dresser, it just lay there, shiny and simple, and nothing more than metal.

Her hand felt bare, and if her pillow was dampened with tears, she squeezed her eyes shut and pretended it was all fine.

She didn’t put the ring back on in the days that followed. Her hand was bare, and it constantly felt like something was missing, but she knew she had to be strong, for herself and for her child.

Kathryn was keeping busy, making plans, even considering going to study in Boston. She talked excitedly about an open day at one of the colleges there, and the possibility of getting an apartment. 

Rebecca tried to be happy for her, but as much as Kathryn seemed to be basking in her newfound freedom, Rebecca missed her own husband. She saw him in passing in town, occasionally. She saw the moment he noticed her wedding ring was missing. The pain and sorrow in his eyes was like a knife in her gut.

She turned away, swallowing hard, and tried to put him from her mind.

It was lucky that she had a distraction in the form of Miner’s Day. It was a silly tradition, something old, but quaint, and she was more than happy to take refuge helping the Nuns set up their stalls. It was common knowledge that her husband tended to avoid Nuns at all costs. She never knew why, but if he wasn’t there, at least she could be distracted by helping them.

Of course, Mary Margaret was there, too. She was trying – and failing – to sell candles on her own stall, with Leroy stood beside her. The town gave the pair of them a wide berth, and Rebecca, while she felt for Mary Margaret a little, couldn’t really blame them. Leroy was known to spend more nights in the Sheriff’s holding cells than his own apartment, and Mary Margaret… well, Rebecca was now living with her greatest victim.

She didn’t buy a candle, no matter how pleadingly her former friend looked at her, and while some part of her wanted to be the brave heroine, the one strong enough to leave the herd and forgive the outcast, Kathryn had been there when Mary Margaret had been too scared of Alistair to say a damned word.

Rebecca knew where her loyalties lay. She helped to set up Jim’s soccer-kick challenge stand in relative silence, and left as fast as she could.

She almost knocked Greg over in her haste to get away, and had it not been for his firm hands on her shoulders she would have been knocked flat on her behind. “Whoa,” he looked down into her face, a mix of teasing and genuine concern, “you alright, Becks?”

“Yeah, sorry.” She shook her head, trying to clear it. “Just a bit out of it today.”

“And this week, and this month, I’m guessing?” He raised an eyebrow. “Or did your phone stop working?”

She hadn’t been dodging his calls, exactly, but while Alistair was wandering about and with his newly-minted violent streak, she hadn’t dared to tempt fate. Or maybe she was just scared of the fact that, had she not met Alistair when she did, she’d likely be Mrs Greg Aston, right about now. Now she was separated from her husband, and he’d never really met anyone serious, it stood to reason he’d be thinking along more than platonic lines.

“I’m sorry,” she said, again, “I just…”

“No, I get it,” he cut in, waving off her apologies, “your life massively sucks right now, don’t go worrying about me. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

She sighed, and sagged toward him almost without thinking. He wrapped her up in his massive arms immediately, and she breathed deeply, near tears with the knowledge that he, of everyone she knew and of all her very few friends, really meant that. He could take care of himself: he didn’t need her for stability, or to hold him up, or to keep him from hurting anyone, including himself. She leaned almost all her slight weight against him, and he didn’t even shift for balance.

“Becca?” he asked, softly. One arm was wrapped around her back, his other hand held her head against his chest, blocking out the rest of the world. It felt wonderful, and if she closed her eyes, she could pretend it felt half as good as it had when Alistair had held her, before everything went to hell.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled into his chest, “old pregnant lady things.”

“It’s all alright, Becca,” he murmured back, stroking her hair absently, his words vibrating against the top of her head, “I promise. It’s all alright.”

She took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded as she stepped back. She didn’t go far, though, and his arm didn’t leave her: it just moved, slung loosely about her shoulders, and she’d never been more thankful for him than right then. She’d like to hold herself up, and stand tall; she just knew that, right now, she really couldn’t.

“Kathryn’s leaving today,” she said, her voice a little thick. He nodded, as they started to walk vaguely toward the Nolan house. “She’s really happy about it, it’s a big opportunity for her, and it’s only for a few days but…”

“But you don’t want to be on your own,” he finished for her. “That’s understandable. Is it… because of him? Is he making you afraid? Because rental agreement or no I’ll kick the shit out of the bastard if he is.”

“No, no,” she shook her head. She knew Alistair wouldn’t actually come and hurt her, or their child. He’d just burn the town down around them, and say it was for their own good. “No, he wouldn’t, it’s not him I’m afraid of.”

“Then who?” he frowned, “Nolan? Cause I could take Nolan, I’ve seen him at the gym, he’s not as built as he looks.”

He looked so earnest and serious, so ready to go out and defend her honour like a little boy on a mission that she had to laugh. Even more so at the idea of living in fear of David, who walked around town these days looking like nothing so much as a kicked puppy. She snorted, “I could take David down myself, don’t worry.”

“Then who’re you afraid of?” he asked, stopping to look down at her, hard.

“Me,” she admitted, softly. “If I’m on my own… if the baby kicks, or I get low, or I need something… I’ll call Alistair, Greg. I’ll call him and he’ll come running, and we’ll end up back where we were. I still love him, no matter how much of a bastard he is or how much better off I am without him. And I can’t let myself give into that.”

“Alright then,” Greg said, firmly, taking all her insecurity, all her anxiety, in stride with one firm nod of his head. She loved him a little for that ability, she always had. Even if she’d never been able to be in love with him, to feel anything close to how she still, horribly, felt for Alistair, there was still love there. “You’ll crash with me until Kathryn’s back. We can go to the Miner’s Day thing tonight, then you come back and take the couch for a few days. Sorted.”

“You sure?” she asked, and he gave her a look like she was insane.

“Let me see, let my best friend go back to her psycho ex husband because she’s lonely, or keep an eye on her… it’s a tough choice, really, I do like having my beer not go walkies when I’m not looking…” He winked at her, and she giggled, the sound brighter than she’d sounded in a while, even to her own ears. “I’m certain. In fact, you try anything else and I’ll drag your skinny ass back fireman style. You know I could, too.”

“I’m a hair-puller,” she confided, “and a biter. You’d not stand a chance.”

He pulled an exaggerated shocked face, free hand to his heart as they started walking again, “Rebecca French, are you telling me you fight dirty?”

He saw her face freeze, the tension return and the laughter flee at his slip-up. She shook her head, but she couldn’t hide it: she should be Rebecca French again now, shouldn’t she? So why did it still sound so very, very wrong? Like no one had ever called her that, like it wasn’t even her name.

“Jesus, I’m sorry Becks,” he said, wincing and squeezing her closer, “I’m an idiot.”

“It’s fine, Greg,” she reassured him, softly, resting her head under his shoulder in wordless apology. “I should get used to it. There’s nothing can happen now that’d make it all right for me to be Rebecca Gold again. That part of my life needs to be over.”

“Doesn’t make it easier though, I’m guessing.”

“No,” she sighed, “it doesn’t.”

 

______________________________________________________

 

A summer storm had swept in from the sea. 

Gaston was soaked to the bone when he returned to the rooms he shared with his wife, and was unsurprised to find that she wasn’t there. When his extended family had visited, she understandably made herself scarce, and even when Royal visitors came in the weeks that followed, she seldom made more than a brief appearance at the feasts.

It wasn’t simply because she found the presence of so many watchful eyes smothering. She had never enjoyed ceremonial gatherings, and when those gatherings were so his family could make amends for an attempt on her life, she found them even less appealing. 

But she wasn’t there now, and he knew where she would be, and he had a sinking feeling that he knew why.

She didn’t simply go to keep their prisoner passive and calm. Some strange bond had been forged between his wife and their captive, from whatever dark magic the imp had used to purge her of the poisons that were killing her. She went often. She went freely. She went and sometimes, when she returned, she was smiling in a quiet, private way.

It unnerved him, but he knew he was the only one who noticed.

Most of their people no longer dared to look her in the eye. It was as if they feared they would be tainted – as if they thought her polluted – by her proximity with the creature. He was one of few who still met her eyes. He knew he was also the only aside from her father who would still touch her.

He shed his heavy, rain-sodden cloak, draping it over the back of one of the high-backed chairs, and set to work removing his armour. He had only just succeeded in shedding his heavy boots when the door opened.

He didn’t need to turn to know it was her.

The scent of the rain was heavy and warm, but the scent of the dungeon was chilly and reeked of metal and rot.

She walked straight to the fireplace, crouching down and holding her hands out to the flames. It was always cold below, always, but she was stubborn and would never add another layer, or a warmer cloak. If her prisoner was to suffer it, she had said more than once, she would tolerate it too.

Gaston glanced sidelong at her. He could see she was shivering as she subsided from a crouch to sitting cross-legged on the fur rug.

In silence, he walked to the bed and fetched one of the blankets, then approached her and bent down to drape the blanket around her shoulders.

Belle looked up in surprise.

“I could hear your teeth chattering from the other side of the room,” he said, squeezing her shoulders through the blanket. “One day, you’re going to stop being stubborn and realise that he’s a cold-blooded lizard man, and you’re a human who needs to be warm.”

Belle wrinkled her nose, drawing the blanket closer around her shoulders. “How do you know?” she said. “He might feel the cold just as much as I do.”

Gaston snorted, returning to the table to load a plate up with cold meats and breads from the platters laid out there. “He’s complained about everything else,” he said. “I’m pretty sure he would complain about it if he caught a chill.”

He heard Belle laugh, quietly but warmly, and he smiled. He had almost forgotten what it was like to hear her laughter.

With some negotiation he managed to carry the plate, two goblets and a pitcher of wine across to the rug in front of the fireplace. He nudged her gently with his thickly-stockinged foot. 

“Make room,” he said. “You’re taking up a lot of space for such a small person.”

She pulled a face at him, but shuffled sideways, clearing a space on the fur rug to let him sit. She took the goblets from his hand and smiled as he set the plate down in front of her.

“Did papa give you instructions to feed me?” she asked, as he poured them both a measure of sweet red wine.

“I came up with this all by myself,” he replied. He searched her face, and could see why her father might have done so. She was still thin from her illness, the skin of her cheeks drawn over her cheekbones, but she looked healthier than he had seen her in a long time. 

Belle rolled up a finely-sliced piece of ham with her fingers and ate it hungrily, following it with quick bites of bread. “I had a picnic this afternoon,” she said, “but if it makes you better to see me eat…”

“A picnic?” he echoed in disbelief. “With him?”

“Mm.” She popped a plump piece of chicken in her mouth, then smirked at Gaston, a touch of her old mischief in her eyes. “He complained.”

Gaston shook his head, trying to set aside his instinctual dislike of his wife paying a social call to the monster below and be a part of her merriment. He loved her, as much as he’d never been in love with her, and she was still the woman who’d always been his closest friend. He trusted her, and the last thing he wanted was to isolate her because of whatever spell Rumpelstiltskin had woven around her. One day she would need someone to stand by her, to help her, to understand. And that, more than anything else, was a husband’s duty.

“Was the food not to his liking?” he asked, lightly, “The pork not virginal enough for his appetite?”

Belle giggled, a startled little sound. “No, in fact he claimed the food was too fancy for his tastes. He seems to have a dislike of frills and things, for all his stupid little gestures.” She shook her head, a private little moment of displeasure, and Gaston wondered if she ever spoke thus of him to others. If she ever looked so much like one on the inside of something, while the rest of the world lay beyond its walls. 

“Should introduce him to mother,” Gaston said, after a moment.

Belle laughed again. “Oh, gods, yes. If we wanted our home levelled and the land to become a battlefield, that is. Can you even imagine?”

“She’d tell him he was being fussy and murder him with a hat pin.”

“Or slip something in his drink,” Belle muttered, the merriment leaving her eyes as fast as it’d come. His mother was still a delicate topic with her, to the point where they’d never truly discussed what had happened those months ago, or how she’d been rescued.

“Belle-“

“Why is she here?” Belle cut him off. “I’m sorry, but… Gaston she tried to kill me. She almost succeeded. If I were sitting taking tea with her every day the kingdom would smile and dote, despite the fact she’s a would-be murderess, but Rumple…”

“She’s my mother, Belles,” Gaston tried, gently. “She’s trying to make amends.”

Belle snorted, softly, “She’ll not mean it until I plop out a grandson for her, and we both know that won’t happen. Even if we tried again… she hates me because I’m barren. She should be thankful Rumpelstiltskin’s locked up.”

“What do you mean?” Gaston asked, sharply, and Belle gave him a grim look.

“He had to save me from the jaws of death itself, Gaston,” she reminded, soft and stern. “I’m his only visitor, his friend in there, and I think… I know he cares about me. He knows what your mother did, if he got out… well, the fate she planned for me would have been kind by comparison.”

“He’s a monster, Belle. I understand you wanting to help, you always were too kind for your own good, and if it keeps him quiet I’ll not complain, but… he’s done worse than mother could even dream of, than we can imagine. And he’ll do it again. He’d enjoy it, can’t you see that?”

“There’s a man underneath those scales, Gaston. Can’t you see that? He could have finished the job when I was sick, and instead he set me to rights. I feel better and stronger every day and… he’s sweet to me.” She shook her head. “He’s good company, and he’s stopped trying to shock me now. I think he’s scared, and alone, and he has been for a long time. But he could have killed me, and he saved me instead. That’s more than can be said for members of my own family.”

“I can’t forgive what mother did either,” Gaston admitted, “but that doesn’t stop me from worrying every time we leave you alone down there. What if he guesses your name? What if he gains that power over you, what then?”

The look she gave him was half sadness, half smug happiness. “Yes, what then? He’s had my name for weeks now, Gaston. I gave it freely. And still, our castle prospers, and I’m safer with him than I am upstairs with her and her kin, and everything remains as it should be. There is a monster in our home, husband, but it is not the creature in the basement.”

“This won’t end well,” he promised, “there’s something terrible coming. Can’t you feel it?”

“I can,” she admitted, “there is something, something on the horizon. But I swear to all the gods, Gaston, it isn’t him. Whatever’s looming, Rumpelstiltskin’s not at it’s head.” She laughed, suddenly, ruefully, “He likely had a hand in it and would boast if questioned, but he’ll not summon whatever plague is coming.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, and took a sip of her wine. “I just am. Can you trust me?”

And there, in that question, lay everything. 

After a moment, Gaston nodded. “To the ends of the earth, Belle,” he promised, quietly, “just don’t bring it about too soon, would you?”

_______________________________________________

 

It was nice, just to let someone else distract her for a little while. 

Kathryn said her goodbyes early in the afternoon, and said she would be leaving by nightfall to avoid the traffic. Rebecca was startled by how upset she was. It wasn’t like Kathryn was going away for good. Of course she’d come back and visit. Of course she would stay in touch. And yet, Rebecca couldn’t help feeling like she was saying goodbye for the last time.

No one left Storybrooke.

It was where you lived out your boring little life, and no one ever went anywhere.

Until now.

Greg was her knight in shining hummer. Rebecca had her things all packed when he arrived, and he took one look at her, then loaded up the car, and took her back to his place, where he promptly took out a pint of her favourite ice cream and handed her a spoon.

“Greg,” she protested half-heartedly.

“Calcium,” he informed her. “It’s good for the baby.”

She let him indulge her for the afternoon, because it hadn’t happened in a long while. Alistair used to, but she couldn’t remember the last time he had done something spontaneous and generous and pampering. And yet, it brought back the memory of the way he gently massaged her feet, watching her with such sad devotion.

It hurt. Her friend leaving. Her husband being nothing like the man she married. Her world being turned on its head. If Greg hadn’t been there to be a shoulder for her to cry on, she knew she probably would have fallen to pieces right then and there.

Part of her was tempted to avoid the Miner’s Day events. Too many people and questions about where her husband was. There were always suspicious, speculative looks directed at her, as if she would report on them, tell all their dirty little secrets to Alistair. She never did, but even the possibility was threat enough for people to keep their distance. 

Greg, however, was persuasive, and in the end, she enjoyed herself.

There were stalls, and he showed her up in the hoopla again. He always was better at anything sporty than she was, but it didn’t stop her socking in the arm and blaming the fact he was a stupidly tall mutant. 

“You’d think that after twenty years of friendship, you’d come up with a new insult,” he said solemnly, offering her the fluffy toy lion he had won.

“Why ruin a long and glorious tradition,” she retorted with a snort. She took the lion and examined it. “Why this?”

He chuckled. “It’s not for you, Titch. It’s for the Titchlette in your belly.”

And that, of all the stupid things, was the thing to break the dam. She felt her eyes burning and she turned away to keep him from seeing, but he would know anyway. He’d seen her cry before, and he suddenly has his arm around her shoulder, leading her between a couple of stalls for privacy.

She couldn’t give just one reason that she was crying. It was everything. Greg, who wasn’t her husband, was treating her like she wished Alistair would. Her friend who promised to be there with her was gone. Her friendship with Mary Margaret was in pieces. And she was going to have a baby who wouldn’t have a father.

Greg sat down on an upturned barrel, and all but lifted her into his lap, holding her close and rocking her like she was a kid.

“It’s okay, Becca,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she sobbed. “It’s not been okay for a long time.”

And it was all pouring out of her, all the pent up grief, the misery, the pain of being married to a man whom she loved and who she knew loved her, but who would and could not be the man she needed him to be.

“It should have been you,” she whispered, her cheek resting against Greg’s chest. I should have stayed with you.”

“Becca, you’re upset…”

She lifted her head to look up at him, safe, loving, familiar, good Greg. “I am,” she said quietly, “but I’m not wrong, am I? You would never make me feel like this, would you?”

He lifted his hand to brush the tears from her cheek with his thumb. “I would never be able to make you cry like this,” he replied, just as softly. “Because I know you would never feel this strongly about me.”

Rebecca blinked hard, trying to force back the tears, but only succeeding in sending fresh fat ones rolling down her cheeks. “But you wouldn’t ever make me cry, not even a little,” she whispered. “We would take care of each other.”

Greg nodded. His hand was still against her cheek, and it was warm and gentle, and had never set a fire or broken into a car or beat anyone with a stick. She felt safer with this giant of a man who could crush her with his embrace than with her own husband.

They were staring at one another when there was a crackle of power and all the lights went dark. And in that brief, anonymous darkness, Rebecca leaned up and pressed her lips to Greg’s.


	13. Chapter 13

Rebecca wasn’t at the Nolans’ house anymore.

Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t watching her, of course not. He had other things to be doing, more important than watching his necessarily errant former wife live a life without him. But no matter what Regina had promised, Rumpelstiltskin himself had taught that woman to lie. He made sure, at least, to know Rebecca’s basic movements, so that he would know as quickly as possible if she needed his help.

And the Nolan house was empty.

He knew where Kathryn was, of course. She was in the cabin in the woods outside of town, unable to escape but comfortable enough with blankets and food. He sent Dove up three times daily to check in on her, and apparently their captive was growing more puzzled by the day by the conscientiousness and courtesy of her captor. The cabin, for all it was a prison, was kept comfortable and liveable for the captive.

He felt ill having to drug her food to keep her sedate, and incapable of running away. It was one of the worst things, perhaps the worst, that he’d done since the curse was cast, but it was also necessary.

Everything was necessary. That was the horror of it.

He’d thought that Rebecca, concerned for her friend’s wellbeing now that Emma had declared Kathryn officially ‘missing’, would stay in the house to await her return, but apparently, she hadn’t been sleeping there since Miner’s Day.

A whole week had passed since then, and he’d only glimpsed her once in the street.

What if Regina had decided use her status as Kathryn’s former friend to manipulate Rebecca? What if she was staying with the Mills family, an oblivious hostage to ensure his good behaviour, or with one of Regina’s associates?

That was why, after a week of not knowing, Rumpelstiltskin decided he had to find out.

He thought about following her, or sending Dove to do the same, but Dove and Rebecca had always had an odd little friendship and Rumpelstiltskin was well aware that he didn’t really know where his manservant’s loyalties truly lay. He also knew how badly Rebecca would react to any evidence of his spying on her, and he didn’t want to upset her yet again.

So he went down a more conventional route, and sought out someone who knew her to ask.

Mary Margaret Blanchard looked very, very nervous when he approached her in Granny’s Diner one morning. “Good morning, Miss Blanchard,” he said, in what he hoped was a tone that sounded warm, but with his usual malicious undercurrent. No need to sound desperate, after all, or let it be carried back to Regina that he was worried.

“Mr Gold,” she said, and he could see her mentally searching for any excuse to leave there and then. Snow White had stood toe-to-toe with him on numerous occasions, but this cursed counterpart quailed at no more than a smile.

“How are you this fine morning?”

“I’m… okay,” she said, wariness and confusion warring in her expression. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“He wants to know about his wife,” Granny Lucas cut across, with a hard look at Gold. “He was asking about her yesterday as well, but no one would tell him anything. With good reason: hasn’t that poor girl suffered enough?”

“I’m not looking to hurt her,” he snapped, rounding on the old woman. She stood her ground. Even in this world, she was a battle-axe. “I only want to know she’s safe.”

“Then ask her yourself,” Granny replied, her tone well matched with his, her glare ferocious. “We’ll not be your spies.”

“She doesn’t want to speak to me,” Rumpelstiltskin sighed. The forces of Good were always so tiresome, and ultimately so pointless. “I only want to know where she’s staying, that she’s safe. There’s no need to drive me out of here with a crossbow, or have you forgotten the fragility of our rental agreement?”

Silence fell, as Granny held his challenging gaze, and the rest of the diner held their breaths to see what would happen next. Mary Margaret kept her eyes on her hot chocolate, and didn’t say a word. In the end, every one of them was too scared to raise a finger in opposition, even to help a beloved and venerable member of their little community. 

Finally, Ruby blurted, “She’s staying at Greg’s!”

“Ruby!” Granny scolded, but her granddaughter just gave her a hard look.

“Gram, he’ll kick us out on the street!”

“Who in God’s name is Greg?” Rumpelstiltskin turned to the younger woman, although of course he already knew who the man was. Mr Gold, however, would not, and it wouldn’t hurt to gain some confirmation. Ruby fidgeted, anxiously.

“An old friend of hers, they go way back. They used to date before… he didn’t want to get in your way so they stopped hanging out so much, but they’re living together now so…”

“Ruby, that’s enough!” Granny snapped, silencing her granddaughter.

“Indeed,” Rumpelstiltskin smiled, a crocodile’s smile, slow and full of malice, and with not an ounce of genuine pleasure, “more than enough. Thank you for your help, Miss Lucas, I’ll allow you and your grandmother to get back to your work.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, before anyone could see the obscure pain in his eyes. Victory was supposed to taste sweeter, wasn’t it? Belle was back with her husband, no matter what new personalities or reality the curse had imposed upon them, and things were back the way that they should have always been. When Emma finally released them all, then the only woman caught up in this whole web that Rumpelstiltskin had ever truly cared for would awake safe and happy in her husband’s embrace.

How he personally felt about sending her back into another man’s arms was neither here nor there. He’d done for her what she had once done for him, when she had risked all that she had to treat a monster like a man. He had done the decent thing, a kindness for a kindness, no matter what it had cost him to do it. That was what a man did for his friends, was it not?

Rumpelstiltskin had not had a friend in so very, very long that, in truth, it was difficult to recall.

He let himself step back into the usual rut of Storybrooke life. It was a simple pattern that he knew well enough, and there was comfort in the monotony of it all. He could smile his cautionary smile at would-be customers, and take their money for trinkets and tarnished objects that once belonged to them.

He was used to being alone.

His nature and the passage of centuries made it necessary. There was no reason to seek companionship, when that companionship would fade and wither and die, and serve no more purpose as a distraction from his plans. 

Strange that it was no longer as calming as it once was.

Too many months in a cage in a cliff, with the woman who had been his only friend since the days before the Ogres war. Such a short time, and yet, it was like ripples on a pond. She’d dropped into his life like a pebble into a still and stagnant pool and it felt like the surface could never be calm again.

Rumpelstiltskin picked up one of the delicate crystal ornaments and examined it.

It shattered wonderfully when it hit the wall, taking several glasses and tankards with it. Several plates followed and when he swung his cane, when one of the mirrors smashed into a million pieces, when his breath was burning in his lungs, he could almost pretend he enjoyed the destruction of beautiful things as much as he once had.

He had his hand braced against the counter, his every breath hissing between his teeth, when the doorbell jangled behind him. He swung around, eyes blazing, to find the wolf girl standing there.

As strong as she had been in the forest, she was pathetic in Storybrooke. Painted up and dressed down, she hid behind make-up and costume, a child who didn’t know who she was. He could appreciate the masquerade.

“What do you want?” he snarled. 

The girl back-stepped, but the door had swung closed behind her. Her eyes were wide and her face was pale. “I-I…”

He stalked a step towards her, then another. He was leaning on the counter. His stick was shaking in his hand. Angry. He knew he looked angry. He knew he felt it too, and right now, any target was better than none. “I’ll say again,” he said, his voice ice-hard. “What do you want?”

Her eyes darted every which way. Fight or flight, he thought darkly, and this broken pup was ready to run. “I-I need a job,” she whispered, her lips as pale as the rest of her face. “I-I thought that since I helped you…”

He stared at her, and then started laughing. “Granny dearest not keen on you rebelling?” he sneered. “Helping Mr Gold must come high on the list after flirting with customers and stacking dishes badly.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know her.”

“Oh, but I do,” he said, malice dripping off every word. “You’re such a disappointment to her, Miss Lucas. She looks at you and she sees every one of her shattered dreams and hopes.” He stopped where he was, picking up a paperweight. The glass gleamed in his hand, round and heavy, a perfect weapon. “How do you feel, Miss Lucas, knowing how much you’ve let her down?”

The girl’s dark eyes were bright with emotion. “You don’t know anything about me,” she whispered. “I’m a good person. I work hard.”

His lips curled back from his teeth. “Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “Who knows? One day you might believe it.” He hefted the paperweight. “Now, take your tail between your legs and get out of my shop. I have no use for a child who can’t even hold down a job gained through nepotism.”

“I told you where your wife is!” Ruby exclaimed.

Rumpelstiltskin dragged his thumb across the surface of the paperweight. “You did,” he agreed, then hurled it at her with all his strength. It missed. Of course it did. He didn’t want to end up in jail again. But it crashed against the wall, knocking a shelf of ornaments down.

Ruby recoiled as if he had gone mad, staring at him. “You’re crazy!”

He lifted up his cane examining the handle. “Quite possibly,” he said, his teeth bared. “Do you want to push me, Miss Lucas? Because there’s a very fine line between you walking out of this door and being carried out.”

She shrank back, a wolf cowed, and fled.

Rumpelstiltskin sagged against the counter, all strength gone from him. He was tired. He was tired and alone and everything was as it was meant to be, but it hurt. It all hurt, and even sending the bold wolf whimpering into the day didn’t help. 

 

______________________________________________________

 

Snow and Charming were fighting.

It didn’t happen often, but when it did, that was when the entire palace was reminded that their Fair Princess had spent several years living in the forests, hunting for food with her bare hands. Snow could tear apart an argument with words, but if need be, she could also club someone across the head.

Charming knew that better than anyone. He still had the scar from their first encounter, and Red had a feeling he would have made sure there was a table between him and his very pregnant wife when they argued.

She knocked on the door.

The raised voices – muffled by the door – fell silent, and Red waited until it opened. Charming was looking harried and tired. He’d returned from the frontiers to learn that Snow had gone to visit Avonlea. He hadn’t taken the news well, to say the least, and it had taken the combined force of Grumpy and Granny with her crossbow to stop him riding off to drag his wife back from the demon’s clutches.

“What is it, Red?” he asked.

Red looked down at the tray of food in her hands, then back at him. “The servants were scared to come up in case Snow threw her mace at them,” she said with a half-shrug. “You know how she gets.”

Charming’s lips quirked. “We were that loud, huh?” He opened the door a little wider, letting her in.

 

“You’ve been sent in to play the white flag again?” Snow asked. She was sitting in her padded chair by the fire, massaging her temples with her fingertips.

“Some people wanted to get some sleep,” Red replied. “You might be able to lure birds down from the trees with your singing, but the shouting at the top of your voice isn’t quite as sweet.”

Snow pulled a face at her. “I was just telling Charming that nothing happened,” she said. “I went, I saw the imp in his cage, and I came home. I didn’t make any deals. I didn’t get tricked or trapped. I’m fine.”

“That’s not the point,” Charming said, rubbing his eyes. “Snow, the man trades in babies.”

“I know,” Snow said quietly. “But I wasn’t there about our child.” She looked up at him, her expression grave and dignified. When she looked like that, Red always felt like she should be kneeling before her Queen. “Belle. I needed to know that Belle would be safe from him, from his influence.”

Charming grimaced. “She treats him too kindly.”

“She treats him as a person,” Snow countered. “Kindness is nothing to do with it. If you or I were in that cell, I don’t doubt she would be just as civil.”

“But we aren’t in that cell, are we? Because we don’t have that awkward habit of destroying half the world with dark magic!”

“Stop it! Please!” Red shouted over the din. Her friends fell into fuming silence once more, and Red resisted the urge to groan and run a hand over her face. “Does it matter? Snow’s safe, she didn’t make any deals, and the Queen is still our biggest problem.”

“We should get Belle out of there,” Charming said, stubbornly. “She could be in danger, he could kill her at any-“

“He won’t, dear,” Snow said, softly. Charming was brought up short, it seemed, by her sudden calmness, and the sad resignation in her voice. 

“How can you be so sure?”

“Would you hurt me?” she asked, simply, her eyes finally catching his. Red gaped at her, grasping her meaning immediately. But no, Snow had to be mistaken: the Dark One didn’t have a heart, much less the ability to love. 

“Of course not, Snow, but-“

“There’s your answer,” she said, sadly. “You wouldn’t hurt me for the same reason Rumpelstiltskin would rather chew his own hand off than hurt Belle. I saw it with my own eyes, Charming.”

Red shook her head, nothing making any sense at all. “I don’t believe this.”

“It’s true, Red,” Snow said. “Unbelievable, I know, but true. He all but admitted it outright.”

“But he didn’t admit it, did he?” Charming demanded, their fight apparently not quite dead yet after all. 

“I know what I saw!”

“But you don’t know him!” Charming countered, “What he’s capable of!”

“I… ah,” Red set the tray more securely down on the nearest table, and backed away, “I’ll leave you guys to it. Happy fighting!”

They barely heard her as she left the room. She thought she ought to warn the nearby servants to stay away from the royal bedchambers: it would be a long night, it seemed.

She paced the halls for a while, aimlessly. Usually she stayed up talking with Snow and Charming, but they were otherwise occupied. The castle was large enough for a decent walk, anyway, and it had started to rain outside. All wolves needed to pace and run, but Red drew the line at soaking her dresses.

She finally found herself in Granny’s chambers, next to her own. She let herself in, suddenly realising she needed Granny’s warmth and bustling cheer after wrangling their monarchs upstairs. Things didn’t feel right when Snow and Charming fought. Truth be told, things hadn’t felt right since the Snow fell pregnant, and the Queen upped her attacks.

“Something the matter, my girl?” Granny came out to greet her. She was wrapped up in her dressing gown, and Red felt a stab of something in her chest: it was barely nightfall, and her grandmother was already preparing for bed. 

“I’m sorry, Granny,” she said, unable to keep a little of the pain out of her voice, “I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

“Nonsense!” Granny waved a hand, “you know you’re always welcome to come and disturb me. Now, was this a social call, or did you have something on your mind?”

Red gave a sheepish smile, and took her usual seat by the fire, watching as her grandmother did the same. “Snow and Charming are fighting again,” she confided, “I tried to mediate but I think I’m safer in a room with a crossbow.”

“Might be the only thing that’ll wedge them from each other’s throats, these days,” Granny agreed. “Those two love each other like nothing I’ve ever seen before, but they have a fine set of lungs between them. What set them off this time?”

“Snow snuck out to visit Rumpelstiltskin,” Red told her. She watched with surprise how Granny’s features tightened, how she seemed to tense all over.

“And why would she do that? He’s all chained up now, isn’t he? They saw to that good and proper.”

“Snow says she was worried about the Lady Belle, who owns the castle above his dungeon. They apparently spent a lot of time together, and she thought there might be something unsavoury going on. Like he might have bewitched or trapped her or something.”

“I’ve met Belle once.” Granny nodded. “She was at Snow and Charming’s wedding. She didn’t seem the kind to be easily led into dark ways. Bright girl that one, and anything but harmless.”

“There’s something more,” Red continued, slowly. “Snow… she thinks Rumpelstiltskin might be in love with Belle. But that can’t be, can it? Monsters don’t love people, especially not people who keep them locked up!”

Granny didn’t answer immediately, but she levelled a long, steady look at her granddaughter. There was something in her expression that Red didn’t understand, that made her a little uneasy. “Right, Gram?”

Granny sighed, and shook her head. “There’re more things in this world, girl, than you’re aware of yet. Monsters aren’t always monstrous. You should know that better than anyone.”

“I suppose…” Red considered, but Granny was still watching her carefully, as if there was something more to the story than a simple reminder of her own somewhat unique abilities. “Wait, what aren’t you telling me?” Red’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know?”

“Only that a monster once did me a very large favour, once,” she said, with a soft, wry smile. “I’ve learned since then that a reputation means very little, when compared to reality. I’m surprised at you, my girl,” she continued, shaking her head. “You were driven out of your home because someone decided you were a monster, and no one else would listen to reason. I’m surprised at Snow, too, but the girl’s got her body going six ways from Sunday with the baby coming, so she can be forgiven. What’s your excuse?”

 

________________________________________________________________________

 

The floor was a mess of sparkling shards. Cabinets were broken apart. His knuckles were bleeding where splinters of glass had caught in his flesh. It was all in ruins, and he didn’t feel any better for it. Being without magic meant he couldn’t just repair the results of such blind idiocy as he had in the forest.

He retreated into the back of the shop to lick his wounds, and tend to the splinters of glass. He was still sitting there, tweezers plucking bloody shards from his skin, when he heard the front door open and the bell above it jingle.

The sign had been turned to closed, and there were only two people in town who would have the nerve to cross him.

He looked up, expecting to find the Sheriff standing in the doorway. It wasn’t the Sheriff. It was Rebecca, and she was grave and pale, one hand on her belly. 

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

Rumpelstiltskin rose behind the desk, unable to think of a single plausible reason for his behaviour. “I lost my temper,” he said, staring at her. She was back with her husband, where she was meant to be. She would be safe and happy with the man who had been Gaston, and he wouldn’t hurt her. 

She recoiled at his words, as if he could turn his temper on her. He braced his hands against the edge of the workbench. His legs were shaking beneath him. She couldn’t know he would never lash out at her. How could she know?

“What are you doing here?” he asked numbly.

“Ruby was worried,” she replied, one hand pressed to the doorframe. “She came by the school. Said you were upset.”

“Not by Greg’s house, then?”

He saw what colour was left flee her face. “Alastair…”

He didn’t want to be angry or upset, but she was his wife in this world, and as much as Alastair Gold was a character built in Regina’s little playhouse, there was enough of an echo of him to be angry and miserable and jealous. 

“Very fast work,” he said, bitterness coating each syllable. “Just how long has he been keeping a space warm for you, this boyfriend of yours?”

Rebecca could not have looked more furious if he’d struck her. “What kind of person do you take me for?” she demanded furiously. 

“The kind who moves in with her ex-boyfriend without so much as a warning,” he retorted. The edge of the workbench was pressing against his palms, and he knew they would be bruised in no time. “Tell me, Rebecca, do you even to plan to tell our child who his father is? Or is this man-mountain of yours going to steal my child as well as my wife?” His voice was breaking, and his eyes were burning with tears he tried to fight back. He turned away from her, unable to stand the contempt in her eyes. “Just go!”

All he could hear was his breathing. He was sobbing, and it hurt, his chest aching, and she must be gone, and that was the end of it. That was how things were meant to be. That was how it had to be.

And that was when her hand touched his. 

He looked down, startled out of his emotional meltdown by the simple, entirely unexpected pressure of her soft hand on his.

“I’m sorry, Alistair,” she said, softly. “I truly am. And I know that you are too.”

He gaped at her, trying to recover his wits. Her voice was not her own, the ringing echo of another woman behind her soft tones, a woman he’d thought long gone and unrecoverable, entirely lost to him. 

For a glorious moment, Belle looked out at him through Rebecca’s eyes, and for the first time in far, far too long, Rumpelstiltskin felt a heart-breaking rush of hope that nearly knocked him off his feet.

“You were a good husband, and a good man,” she said, and the warmth in her voice made his knees shake. “And I believe that man is still inside you, somewhere. When you stop smashing up the whole town with that blasted cane of yours… maybe we can talk.”

It was so much more of a promise than he ever could have deserved, and the urge to simply kiss her, there and then – and thereby ruin everything for hasty, blind, terrible love – was overwhelming. 

Instead he simply, nodded, stiffly, and then shuddered as she squeezed his hand just once, savouring the contact while he could, because it could be the last. 

She walked away, and he watched her progress with awe-struck eyes. At the door, she paused, and looked halfway over her shoulder. “Until then, please leave us alone?” She sounded as if she asked him a favour, rather than issuing a command. “Our child shouldn’t know this part of you.” She gestured to the carnage of his shop, and he nodded. He couldn’t agree more: it had already driven away one child of his, after all.

“Of course,” he said, through a scratched and broken throat, “sweetheart.”

She winced as she left. But she didn’t ask him to take it back.


	14. Chapter 14

Rebecca’s hands were still shaking.

She wasn’t afraid, which surprised her. For so many weeks, she’d been scared. She’d been scared of what her husband was doing, of the unfamiliar man that he was becoming. When Ruby pounded on the door of Greg’s apartment, and in panting breaths told her that her husband had gone insane and was trashing his shop, she knew she should have been afraid, but she wasn’t.

He had learned she was staying with Greg, and she knew exactly why he was smashing up the place that she’d always believed he valued more than their marriage: because she was wrong. He was breaking it, because that was how he felt.

Greg was afraid, though, and tried to stop her from going, but Rebecca knew her husband. He might have been explosive and ridiculous and foolish, but he was hurting. She could see it in the chaos as she stepped into the shop. He hadn’t hurt anyone. He had only hurt himself, smashing everything around him, ruining himself.

He’d cut his hands, and he was cleaning them when she stepped into the back of the shop. He lashed out like a scared animal, his usually placid features twisted up with grief and misery and a strange flicker of acceptance, as if he believed it was his place to be hurt and alone.

That was why she was no longer afraid.

He was an idiot, and made bad decisions, but the look on his face stopped her in his tracks. He believed he was as bad as she had told him. He believed there was no hope for them. He loved her enough that he would tear his world apart around him, and stand in the ruins without fighting when she could have walked away. He was willing to let her go, and in that moment, she knew just how precious that was.

She’d seen how marriages went badly, when two people who no longer had anything in common made themselves miserable. She’d watched Kathryn’s happiness draining away, watched another take Kathryn’s place in David’s affections, and realised that if love was there, it should be fought for.

She loved her husband. She still did, despite it all. As much as he had been an A-grade asshole, who had hidden himself away from her and done stupid, dangerous things, he still loved her, and she knew that she still loved him. She missed him at night. She missed their meals together. She missed the way he would sometimes stroke the back of her neck when she’d stayed up too late in the night and got a crick from reading for too long.

But just because she loved him didn’t mean she felt ready or capable of going back to him.

She left him in the shop and stood outside for a moment, letting the late-afternoon air wash over her. It was a chilly, brisk day, and she wrapped the coat around her. It was getting tight already and she pressed a hand to her belly as the baby shifted. It happened more often now, a flicker of life under her palm. He would have been mesmerised by it, she knew, but that was something else he would have to wait for. If she let him touch her, if she let him that close…

She shook her head, making her way to the car, and drove back to Greg’s. He must have been waiting by the window, because he opened the door as soon as she approached it. Some part of her wanted to take the comfort of a friendly hug, but things weren’t quite right between her and Greg either.

The night of Miner’s day had changed everything, and not for the better.

David Nolan was picked up by the Sheriff, and Rebecca had felt sick to her stomach with the knowledge he was a suspect in Kathryn’s disappearance. That had taken forefront of her thoughts over the stupid, stupid mistake in the darkness of the celebration. They hadn’t brought it up, not even when they argued over who should take the bed.

The fact it was an argument made it clear they had made a mistake.

They had kissed. It was nice. It was comforting. But that was all, and that wasn’t enough, and so they argued about the bed. 

Rebecca still felt ashamed that she had tried to take advantage of Greg’s long-standing fondness for her, and she knew he felt awkward about kissing a married woman who was pregnant with her husband’s child. They were friends, and they took refuge in the simple triviality of the fact he was a giant and she was tiny and his sofa wasn’t made for men who would have to fold in half to use it. She won, after the first night, when he almost dislocated his spine trying to sleep.

“You okay?” Greg asked, as she entered the apartment.

Rebecca nodded, undoing her coat. “I think so,” she said. “He’s not.”

“And you care about that,” her friend said. It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact. Of all the people in Storybrooke, Greg was one of the few who would trust her choices and her opinion, even if he really didn’t like her husband.

She sat down on the sofa, laying her coat over her knees. “He’s my husband,” she said quietly.

Greg sighed, crossing the room to sit down on the floor beside her, his back against the front of the sofa. “He might be a dickhead,” he said, “but he still cares about you.” 

Rebecca nodded unhappily. “It would be easier if I was married to you,” she said.

He tilted his head to look back at her, and there was a small, rueful smile on his lips. “Us? Married? I don’t think it would work out,” he said. He knocked his arm against her thigh. “We can’t even make out without it being weird. I don’t think we were made to be together.”

The tension that had been hanging over them seemed to shatter like glass under a hammer, and Rebecca started to laugh, unsteady, helplessly. “Thank god,” she said, between giggles. “I thought it was just me. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

He turned to kneel in front of the sofa and propped his elbow on the cushion beside her. “You kiss like a drunk fish,” he said solemnly. 

Rebecca socked him on the arm. “Pot, kettle, Mr slug-tongue,” she said. “And anyway, if we were married, I don’t think I could have your giant babies without doing some serious damage.” She wrapped both hands over her belly. “She’s going to be a little thing.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “She?”

She nodded, with a smile that wanted desperately to turn tearful. “Yeah, I got another exam two days ago, and Whale said I could know the sex. I wanted… I don’t know, I wanted some certainty, you know? So I said I wanted to know. She’s a baby girl.”

“Oh, Becks, that’s wonderful.” She thought Greg had a few tears in his own eyes as he gathered her in for a very gentle hug, trying not to put any pressure on her swollen belly. She was crying – happily, mostly, she thought – as she clung to him. She could feel a tear or two splash on her own shoulder, and thought that if her child had to end up with a father figure who wasn’t her real dad, then she might as well have someone who cared this much about her.

“Why’re you crying?” Rebecca laughed, as she finally disentangled herself from Greg’s arms. “You’re not even hormonal!”

“I’m sorry. ” Greg shook his head, his voice still a little shaky, and then cleared his throat, making a conscious effort to sound more masculine, “I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am man. Man no cry.”

Rebecca laughed, wetly, and nodded. “Of course, how stupid of me, I apologise.”

Greg grinned. Then, his smile turned tender and sincere. “She’ll be beautiful, Becks,” he said, “I hope that bastard appreciates her.”

“Does it matter one way or the other?” Rebecca shrugged, but she felt the lie beneath it as she did so. As if Alistair’s opinion didn’t matter, when in actual fact she knew that if he were to reject their child, however improbable it was, would tip her over some great and terrible edge.

Greg gave her an entirely unimpressed look, “You know that it does. You went to him today when he was going mental, dangerous, potentially violent, and I doubt there was a screaming match. I’d… I might have liked to think that we could try it. Being together, I mean. I’d like to think I could have made you happy and kept you safe, even if it’d never have been more than that…”

“That would have been enough,” Rebecca said, softly, but Greg shook his head, a resigned smile on his lips.

“We both know that’s not true; we both deserve more than that.”

Rebecca shook her head, “I had more than that, and it went away. I’d rather not hurt like that again.”

“You’d rather feel nothing at all?” Greg scoffed, “I call bullshit. If that were true you’d not have gone to see him again. Baby or no baby, you would have stayed away and hidden like a coward. And you, Rebecca, are no coward… I kind of wish that you were, it’d save me from worrying about you, titch.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“But I still do. It’s what you do for the people you love.”

“When did you get all noble and eloquent, Greg?” she laughed, a little uneasily. There was an earnestness in his eyes that she didn’t recognise, something far deeper and more serious than the sweet, careless friend she knew. It felt reassuring and familiar, somewhere deep within her own soul, and frustrating too, as if they’d been having this argument for a decade rather than just the past half hour.

She didn’t question the word ‘love’. It felt like the right one to use, for all she knew that her heart would always belong to Alistair, no matter how much he made it ache.

“I don’t know,” he shook his head, that goofy, lopsided grin of his returning to chase back the gravitas that had so suddenly overcome him. “Seemed appropriate.”

They watched each other carefully for a long moment, each searching for something that neither knew how to find. If it were Alistair watching her so closely, his eyes and lips so near, then she knew that she would be overcome with the desire to kiss him, to be in his arms once more.

But try as she might, she felt nothing but sisterly affection, and finally she flopped back on the sofa, with a sigh of frustration. “God, this’d be so much easier if you were remotely fanciable.”

Greg scoffed, “Says you! You’re a teacup human, I’d probably break you if we ever-”

“We ever what?” she snickered, “Go on, say it? If we ever…”

He was going red, and she felt a lot more secure in the normal way of laughing at her best friend.

“You think you’d break my feeble womanly bones if we ever got it on?” she laughed.

“Just saying there’s a reason your husband is as little as you are,” Greg shrugged, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes, “small people have to stick together, after all.”

Rebecca shook her head with a small smile, “You’re sadly mistaken,” she informed him, “Alistair’s not small where it matters.”

Greg spluttered, turning crimson and choking within moments. “Becks!” he cried, horrified, “Things I didn’t need to know!” She giggled, unable to stop as he gesticulated wildly, unable, it seemed, to form actual words in the face of her laughter. Finally, he sighed, and glared at her. “It’s a good thing we’re not married,” he said, trying to sound stern, “you’re too mean for me.”

“Aww,” she cooed, “am I not sweet enough for you? Do you want someone all placid and doting like Mary Margaret Blanchard?”

Greg snorted, “She’d probably murder you to get to me. I count myself lucky now she was after Nolan instead.”

“What?” Rebecca felt her good humour die on its feet, and she swallowed hard around a sudden knot in her throat. 

Greg stared at her. “Shit,” he said. “You didn't hear?”

Rebecca shook her head. “Hear what?” she asked. Her heart was fluttering in her chest. 

“Oh, Becca, I’m sorry.” He haltingly put one arm around her shoulder, comfortingly. She let him, too shocked to push him back. “Ruby told me, after you left to find your so-called husband. They found a heart in the woods… Mary Margaret’s fingerprints were on the box. Sheriff Swan had to arrest her.”

“A… a heart?” Rebecca felt herself tremble all over, the horror of the idea making her stomach churn and the bile rise in her throat. A heart… who could be so cruel, to carve the heart out of a woman’s chest? Not Mary Margaret, surely. She and Kathryn had their differences, of course, but to do something so cold-bloodedly cruel, so awful…

“They don’t know if it’s hers yet!” Greg tried, desperately. “It could be…”

“What, an animal heart?” Rebecca scoffed, in shocked anger. It suffocated the fresh tears, the rising horror, the grief, and for once she was thankful for her mood swings, the hormones that made it so difficult to hold on to any particular feeling at once. “Don’t be stupid.”

She stood up, suddenly, pushing Greg away as she started to pace, rage in every footfall, every rake of her hand through her hair. Kathryn had been a friend to her when the rest of the town had turned away. She was the best person Rebecca had ever known, and now, because someone was jealous of her, someone wanted her husband, she was dead. Her heart was cut out. Her good, generous heart.

Rebecca yelled. She didn't know if she used words or just sounds, but she yelled and kicked the side of the sofa, her hands clenched into fists.

Greg leapt up in alarm. “Becca! Calm down!” he said, anxiously. “That can’t be good for the baby!”

“I know!” she snapped, whirling on him. “I know, okay! But you just told me that one of my best friends is dead! My friend!” Her hands were shaking, and her vision was blurring with furious tears. “I just want to march right down there and scream at that bitch, but I can’t because it’s too late now, so I have to do something!”

“All right, all right.” He approached her slowly, putting out his hands, touching her shoulders gently, trying to soothe with the reassuring weight. “I know, Becks. I know.”

She shook her head. “I spend too much time visiting jail cells these days,” she sobbed, and yes, now the tears were coming. Kathryn wasn’t coming back. Her husband had lost his mind, her best friend had been murdered, and she was seven months pregnant with a child she had no idea of how to build a home for, much less raise alone. She’d hoped, stupidly, that maybe Kathryn would help her, and that Alistair would regain his mind in time. But a smashed shop, and a heart in a box, had shattered that illusion.

“I know, I know,” he murmured, stroking her hair, “I’m sorry.”

They stood that way for a long few minutes, before Rebecca finally pulled away, and looked him dead in the eye. “If Alistair doesn’t… stop… if he stays the way he is now…”

“A total irredeemable bastard?”

“Yes, that,” she nodded, “if he stays that way, and Kathryn’s dead… then I still have you, right? You won’t kill anyone or break anything?”

“You’ll always have me, Becca,” he promised, and the utter sincerity in his eyes grounded her like nothing had in far, far too long. “You always have, and you always will. Please don’t worry about that.”

“Can you blame me?” she asked, a little wildly. “Everyone else seems to be either dead or dying.”

“Anyone tries to kill me and carve out my heart in the woods,” he said, solemnly, “then I promise to kill them right back.”

She giggled, tearfully. “Deal.”

 

 

Belle didn't come for several days.

Rumpelstiltskin was concerned. Not out of affection, of course. No, no, no. He wouldn't allow himself to think in those terms. He had no place getting drawn into any tangles of affection. It never ended well, not for him, nor for the person he inflicted his cares on. 

All the same, the last time she had failed to attend to him, it was because she was laid out in her bed, dying by degrees at the hand of her mother-in-law. Oh, he remembered that well, and imagined twisting his fingers around the bitter old hag's throat and squeezing.

That was why, on the third day, he started screaming. 

It made the guards jump and shudder, and he heard one clattering away up the stairs. If she was unwell, if she was hurt, if she had come under attack again, he would hear of it, or there would be hell to pay. The bars might hold him, but there were ways and means of unleashing his wrath, and he would have no hesitation to do so.

The footfalls that pounded back down the stairs were definitely not Belle's.

Her foolish lump of a husband stalked into the room, waving the guards away. They fled out the door, pulling it closed behind them.

“What's this about, Rumpelstiltskin?” he demanded. 

Using the name, was he? Either bold or daring. 

Rumpelstiltskin didn't really care which. His eyes blazed and he leapt to the bars, wrapping his hands around them. “Well, well, well,” he sneered. “Sir Knight. Has your mother succeeded in her little endeavour this time? Is that why my gates are no longer guarded by your lady fair?”

“My lady fair, as you call her,” the Knight snapped, “has concerns other than you.”

Rumpelstiltskin pressed his face between the bars, watching the man with loathing. “Mm. I recall,” he said. “And the last time that happened, which of us was the one to save her, hmm?” He bared his teeth. “Tell me, did your mother have you administer the poison on her behalf or was that all done by her own fair hand?”

The man could move with surprising speed for one so big, and his hand breached the bars, wrapping around Rumpelstiltskin's throat, almost lifting him from his feet. “I would never harm my wife, demon,” the Knight growled, his eyes blazing. “I'm no monster.”

“Born of one, though, aren't you, dearie?” Rumpelstiltskin snickered maliciously. “Do you think she'll ever really love you again, knowing that?” 

It was a stupid question, a pointless question. Belle had a good heart and loved without qualms.

The Knight released his throat. “That's none of your business,” he said, stepping back, and folding his broad arms over his chest.

In the spirit of spite, Rumpelstiltskin mirrored his pose, folding his arms and mocking mimicking the surly expression on the man's face. He rocked on the balls of her feet. “So an answer, dearie,” he said abruptly. “Will she need a dose of healing again or have your family got over their predilection for failed assassinations?”

“You seem very concerned for her welfare,” the Knight said coolly.

Rumpelstiltskin bared his teeth with a mocking little sneer, though his heart twitched treacherously in his chest. “She used up what little magic I had left,” he said as dismissively as he could. “Since she's the only one to bring me tea and sweetmeats, it would be... unfortunate if she died because you couldn't keep you mother away from the nightshade.” He grinned unpleasantly. “I do quite like my tea.”

The Knight went still and silent, a strange look of revelation on his long face. 

Rumpelstiltskin realised that in a hideous and foolish moment of weakness, he had shown his cards and perhaps his heart. Was he as easily read as that? When had he become so addled by fondness? How had he let the damned woman worm her way into his affections?

“You want her to live.”

Rumpelstiltskin gathered the shattered remains of his self-control, forcing them back together, and skipped closer to the bars. “I would hate for her to die before I could wrap my hands around her pretty little throat,” he purred. “It's less fun to kill people when they're already dead.”

The Knight shook his head with a small, wry smile. “She got to you too, you poor bastard,” he said.

Of all the reactions, that was the one that Rumpelstiltskin didn't expect. It almost made him break character, almost made him straighten up and demand to know what the man meant by that. But the truth was he already could guess. Belle was the kind of woman that any sane man would love – or any ruthless, twisted up old imp for that matter. She was good, and kind, and patient, and clever, and had no patient for fools or folly. 

It was all he could do to snort in dismissal, his arms folding tighter over his chest.

Belle's husband looked back through the bars at him. “Her father has been taken ill,” he finally said. “She had to return to visit him. They think it's only a fever, but after everything that happened, she's become more... wary of illness.”

Understandably so, Rumpelstiltskin thought bitterly. 

“And how long am I to be without my warden and her sweetmeats?”

“As long as she needs,” the husband said. “And I would consider it a kindness if you didn't upset her people in her absence. You know she would blame herself for leaving, and I won't have her burdened by more, on top of her father's illness.”

“And why should I care if the woman who locks me away is distressed?” Rumpelstiltskin asked dryly, but his heart wasn't in it. The man knew, just as Snow White knew. Was he to have no secrets? 

“That's your business,” the man said quietly. “But like I said, consider it a kindness on her account.” He straightened up and bowed slightly at the waist, a measure of respect that Rumpelstiltskin had not received in many long years, at least not offered so fearlessly. “Now, if you'll excuse me.”

Rumpelstiltskin waved the man away, fingers fluttering dismissively, and retreated back to the corner of his cell, sinking down in the darkness. A kindness, on her account. Everyone knew he was a demon, who would kill and scream and torment them all, but on her account, he had been asked to act as she would have asked.

He slunk back to the bars, running his fingers along them as if they were the strings of a harp. They hummed with power, and he could almost imagine plucking a melody from the different pitches of the metal and the magic. 

She spent time enough in a prison already. Even if she was on the other side of the bars, it was no less a prison, trapped by her duty and her marriage and her responsibility to her people. She would return soon, and he could make things easy for her or make things difficult, whether her father lived or not.

He plucked at a bar and made the magic hum. 

A kindness, he thought, on her account. Well, it would make little enough difference to his reputation now.

\---

Rebecca entered the sheriff station with firm feet and a set jaw, feeling more sturdy and strong than she had in months. She was angry. That fuelled her footsteps, made her modest heels clack angrily on the linoleum tile as she approached the office and the cells, her hands clenched in her pockets.

She hadn’t slept well: her nightmares had been full of Kathryn’s face, twisted in agony and screaming, and so much blood, and an aching sense of something precious lost. Someone else she loved had been taken from her, and she was angry.

Rebecca had never really been one for anger, before she’d fallen pregnant. She didn’t know how much was her changed body and how much her forcibly strengthened mind and soul from the ordeal of the past months, and she didn’t much care.

“You,” she growled, as she entered the office. She set eyes on Mary Margaret – blinking, like a startled doe, and oh Rebecca could throttle her – and glared, “How could you?”

“It's quite simple really,” a voice, urbane and unconcerned and horribly familiar, the most familiar voice in Rebecca’s world, came from beside the cell. Her husband stepped out into the fore, hands perched in deceptive nonchalance on his cane, his eyebrows raised. “She didn’t.”

“Alistair?” she gaped at him, and then recovered, the anger smashing back into her at full force, “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

“He’s my lawyer,” Mary Margaret said, her voice shrill and cutting in the silent air. “Becca-”

“You killed her!” Rebecca jabbed a finger at her furiously. “Mary Margaret, you killed her! You killed Kathryn, over David?”

“Don’t answer that,” Alistair said, one hand up to stop Mary Margaret from saying a word. “You don’t have to say a word.”

“I’m innocent,” Mary Margaret declared, her voice throbbing with self-righteous hurt, and Rebecca’s hand itched to smack the bitch. She could understand, for a moment, why everyone in town hated her so at this moment: she was so horribly, sickeningly innocent looking, and every inch of it a lie. She’d bought her own bullshit, too, by the sound of it. Maybe she’d even convinced herself it was a good deed, an honest and noble crime of passion, of true love. “I don’t have to keep silent, I’m telling the truth.”

“Oh yes,” Rebecca scoffed, “just like you weren’t fucking her husband, either.” The course word felt alien on her lips, but she couldn’t help herself: she was so angry her tongue tasted like ashes.

“I…” A fat tear rolled down Mary Margaret’s cheek, “I’m sorry for that,” she said, “I truly am, but I didn’t kill anyone, all I wanted-” 

Rebecca sighed, and held up a hand, “All you wanted was the man you loved. Yes, I understand that. It’ll make a marvellous defence, I wonder who came up with it.” She turned to Alistair, and felt her anger redouble. He met her hard glare with cool indifference, but she saw the set of his shoulders: he was braced for impact, and he knew it would hurt.

Good.

“Lay it on, dear,” he sighed, “let it out.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” she spat, “how are you even defending her, after what she did?”

“You heard her, dear,” he said, calmly, “she didn’t do it.”

“She ruined my best friend’s life!” Rebecca cried, “And now she’s dead, whether this woman held the blade or not, she’s responsible! None of this would have happened without her!” Her voice became a choked sob, and she swallowed hard, but she couldn’t stop tears from falling. “My best friend is dead, and you’re defending her killer.”

She saw Alistair move as if to comfort her, a look of utter agony falling over his features, one hand moving from his cane and reaching toward her. But then he sobered, his face sliding back into its cold mask, and the hand returned. He was her husband for half a second, and then he was the inscrutable Mr Gold once more, and she decided she hated him, that him, more than she had the power even to feel all at once. She hated him, this cold thing who’d killed her husband, as much as the woman who’d killed her best friend, and who now stared at her, mournfully, through the bars. 

“I don’t care if you didn’t kill her,” she hissed, finally, at Mary Margaret. “Kathryn only left town because you made it impossible for her to stay.”

“We were going to tell her,” Mary Margaret pleaded, “David was supposed to, but… someone else got there first.”

“Regina,” Alistair supplied, shortly, “Regina got there first. She made Kathryn believe she was alone, and had to leave town. If you want a target for your rage, sweetheart, look to City Hall.”

“Don’t call me that,” Rebecca spat, “you’re as bad as she is. There wouldn’t have been anything for the Mayor to say if someone had managed to keep her hands off a married man, who by the way was also recovering from severe amnesia and trauma, long enough to tell the truth.” She threw up her hands, shaking her head in contempt. “I’m done. With all you. This was a mistake.” She turned away, and started for the door, unable to look at either of them any longer. “Oh!” she cried, as she saw David Nolan himself coming down the corridor, looking miserable and harried. “Speak of the lying asshole!”

David winced, but Rebecca didn’t care. She felt an odd about of satisfaction at just laying into the three people who, from where she stood, had so utterly betrayed her. Alistair had broken her heart, and when Kathryn gave her a save haven and a rock to cling to, Mary Margaret and David had ripped that away too. All she had left was Greg, and the infant growing in her belly, and nothing she’d lost had been her fault.

Screaming and hurling abuse was a childish solution, but damn if she didn’t feel better.

“Don’t bother,” she muttered, as David tried to say something when he passed her. He looked miserable, a kicked puppy, but she didn’t care.

She kept walking, and didn’t look back. She heard footsteps behind her, after a while, with the distinct gait of a man with a cane.

She didn’t greet him; he didn’t say anything else. He caught up with her, but didn’t take her arm, didn’t apologise or explain, nothing. They left the station together, and went their separate ways.

And that, of all things, was the reason why Rebecca dissolved into floods of tears the moment she was inside her car.

Because they’d come so far, and still they parted without a whisper or a word. And because they’d come so horribly far from where they were, and she still loved him enough to want nothing more than to chase after him, and let him make it okay again.


	15. Chapter 15

Sometimes, plans had to depend on the fall of the dice.

However, when the cast die was the daughter of Prince Charming and Snow White, it almost felt like cheating. Sheriff Emma Swan was the Saviour. If anyone could keep Mary Margaret Blanchard from fleeing the law, it would be her.

Rumpelstiltskin was stiff and cold and tired.

The Sheriff’s station was hardly the most hospitable place in Storybrooke, but he had to be there.

After his encounter with Rebecca he had retreated to his shop to brood in the silence. That was only a few hours ago, but it felt like days, and Rumpelstiltskin was beginning to feel every day of his three hundred years in his aching muscles and joints, not to mention the foreboding in the pit of his stomach. That was where Swan found him, demanding his aid. Never asking, not of him: no one ever graciously asked anything of the Dark One, knowingly or not. Everything had to be a demand, everyone was entitled to something more than he had offered, as if his very existence created a duty of care to every simpleton who made a mistake.

He was grumpy, and old, but he’d promised Emma his help and Gods knew she’d need it. They weren’t friends, and they were hardly allies, but he promised to assist her.

She was surprised when they returned to the jail, though, and found Mary Margaret gone. He played the wide-eyed innocent. It would never do for Swan to know he nudged Regina into leaving a key. 

There were too many dice in the air, and not all of them loaded.

But it all went to plan.

Mary Margaret fled. Swan went after her in a blaze of righteous glory. And Gold…

Well, Gold sat in a cold, dark station, waiting for them to return.

If his mind wandered to Belle - to Rebecca - he tried to brush her aside. There was too much balancing on the knife-edge for him to be distracted. She was safe. She was protected. She was loved. That was all that he needed to know. It was better for him to be alone, to play the game and watch the Queen’s world fall down on his own.

He was still there when Mary Margaret rushed in. She was flushed, panting, and stopped dead at the sight of him.

“In your cage,” he murmured, rising from his chair. “She’ll be here soon.”

Mary Margaret nodded, racing into the cell and slamming the door behind her.

Regina was, of course, surprised to say the least. She didn’t show it to Mary Margaret – not after the first incredulous, furious blink, at any rate – but when she turned to Rumpelstiltskin he could see every inch of the Evil Queen flashing behind her eyes, wishing desperately to incinerate something.

Rumpelstiltskin followed her out into the hall.

Regina’s heels clacked on the floor, then she stopped, spun around, eyes blazing. “What is she doing here?”

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. “She came back.”

The Queen stalked towards him. “You said this was going to work,” she snarled. “That she’d take the key, that she’d go.”

He met her eyes. He had never feared her but oh, now he knew he hated her. He’d tried to protect Belle from the worst of the curse, but Regina had bound them together, a monster and his maiden, for her own amusement. There was a sickness in her soul that ran deeper and blacker than anything he could have hoped to match or create on his own.

“She did,” he said, smiling slightly. “But it seems Miss Swan is rather more resourceful than we thought.” He rested his hands one on top of the other and leaned closer to look her in the eye. “Fear not, your Majesty. Miss Blanchard is still guilty of murder.” His smile was dagger-sharp. “You may yet get what you want.”

May.

It was such a choice word.

Regina was not one to appreciate nuances.

“Oh, I better,” she snapped. “The only reason I made a deal with you, Gold, is because I want results.”

The cane was pressing into his palm, painfully so. “And results you shall have,” he promised. His smile broadened just enough to be icy. “See you at the arraignment.”

She searched his face, then turned and stalked away.

Rumpelstiltskin watched her go. 

Vengeance could and would wait. Vengeance for Belle, for the shame she had been put through, for the position she had been forced into, for the child she was carrying that wasn’t the child of the man she loved. 

It was easy to lull her into a false sense of security.

It always had been.

For reasons unknown, Regina trusted him far more than he had ever given her cause to.

When he offered Mary Margaret like a lamb to slaughter, handing her over to the DA for questioning, the Mayor was positively crowing with delight. When the woman vented her rage about Kathryn, Regina basked in it. When the virtuous and innocent Miss Blanchard placed her own head in the noose out of mortal envy and wrath, Regina was positively glowing.

It was too easy.

He watched from his shop. Emma and some young man were rushing about, looking for some way to liberate Mary Margaret. Nolan was down at the bar more often than not. And Rebecca…

Rebecca was blooming with his child, her snug coats flaring open around her belly, and he wasn’t there for it. Their baby was growing within her, and she was radiant, as he always knew she would be, and all he could do was watch.

There were no bars anymore, but the cage remained, keeping him at arm’s length. Magic no longer protected her, but he did. From Regina and from himself, for Rumpelstiltskin knew that he could do far more damage to Belle with his own two hands than Regina could ever dream of.

He walked home alone, and locked his door behind him as he leaned heavily on his cane for balance. Rumpelstiltskin shambled into the living room and found himself a long, stiff drink, his feet heavy and his eyes half-drooped. He felt drained, and he knew that the next days would bring no relief. In a moment of madness he half wished that Emma Swan had defied prophecy and never come to town, and that he’d remained Alistair Gold, happy and settled with his little wife, and that the storm that was his real life had never found him and ripped it all apart.

He threw the glass hard against the wall; it shattered with a satisfying clash, and he watched the pieces sparkle on the floor, lit by the streetlights through the window. He hadn’t turned on a light. Rumpelstiltskin had always felt more at home in the dark.

It was blasphemy to regret the Curse, or to wish it had never started to fracture. Bae was out in the world somewhere, living with the knowledge that his papa had abandoned him. That was priority number one, and release from that responsibility was something Rumpelstiltskin could never earn in a hundred lifetimes.

He stumbled to bed, and sank into sleep still sick with anger at Regina and the universe and his own twisted, selfish soul that, even now, dreamed of Belle and the child growing within her, and wished for better days. 

He managed to pull himself together by the arraignment the next morning, and sat with his knuckles white on the handle of his cane as Mary Margaret damned herself. He’d hoped that with her exposure to her amnesiac husband and daughter, the curse might have allowed some of Snow White’s former gumption and intellect to bleed through into Miss Blanchard’s meek, mousy little self, but apparently his poor luck was holding steady. He could feel Regina’s cruel smirk through the glass as Mary Margaret dug her own grave, and he couldn’t lift a finger to help her.

Mary Margaret was lead to the courtroom in handcuffs; Rumpelstiltskin followed, with a last word back to Emma, a final assurance that – if all else failed – he would make it right.

He’d already set events in motion to finish this little episode. Kathryn would be found alive any time now, and Regina would explode, and the curse would be that large step closer to breaking. All he had to do now was get through the hearing until the news reached the town hall, and that should have been easy as anything.

Then he took his seat, and caught sight of a tall man and a small, pregnant brunette on the other side of the aisle. Rebecca didn’t look back at him, but Greg did, and when he caught Rumpelstiltskin’s eye his formerly doleful, friendly gaze became a glare. For all that his arm was around Becca’s shoulders, and Rumpelstiltskin still felt that stab of jealousy he always had for the man who could hold Belle without fear of the consequences, the glare reassured him. Greg Aston was still as protective of Rebecca as Sir Gaston had been of his wife, and that could never be a bad thing in Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes.

Becca glanced back just as the hearing began. Her hand rested on her swollen belly, and Rumpelstiltskin looked away before he could say or do something he’d regret.

It took half an hour of the farcical trial before Sheriff Swan burst in through the back doors, and announced that Kathryn had been found alive and well at the diner. Rumpelstiltskin’s face remained impassive, as inscrutable as stone, as the whole room gasped and started to talk, and someone asked Emma if she was certain. By some undeniable stroke of good fortune, she was: she’d been there herself when Kathryn was found.

He allowed himself a small smirk as Mary Margaret was released, and everyone began to leave the courtroom. 

 

Everyone’s eyes were on Emma as she relayed the story to a growing crowd at the back of the hall. 

When Rumpelstiltskin looked away, however, he found that Becca’s eyes were squarely fixed on him, and she didn’t look impressed.

She knew he’d done something. Somehow, through some force that Rumpelstiltskin had never been able to explain but that she’d always possessed, Becca knew that he was intimately involved with this, and nothing about her expression was approving or granted an inch of slack. 

Greg put a protective arm around her shoulders, but Becca’s scrutiny didn’t waver, and Rumpelstiltskin wondered if he was in for a smack the next time he was in reaching distance. She was close to Kathryn, he’d known that, and this must have been unbelievably hard on her. If she chose to make him bleed in penance, he wouldn’t argue with the justice of it.

Her knight hurried her from the room, and he was finally released from her glare. Rumpelstiltskin watched her leave with a regretful little sigh: one day, he hoped, she’d believe in him the way she once had, before he’d taken that faith and shattered it between his palms.

Another selfish little desire, he thought bitterly, as he too left the courtroom. He barely got halfway down the hall before he heard the familiar tapping of regal heels. 

“Mr Gold.”

Rumpelstiltskin stopped, and slowly turned as the Queen descended on him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The defences around the castle were weak. All the power was spent on containing Rumpelstiltskin. There was no magic to keep anyone out, and the creeping rat wasn't noticed as it scurried down the stairs. 

The girl was there, the pale little Lady of Avonlea. She was standing by the bars as the rat skittered in the shadows.

“And you didn't think to tell them anything else before they left?”

Rumpelstiltskin was hidden in the gloom. “You know I don't answer questions that are not asked,” he said. He moved forward into the flickering torchlight, raising his eyes to the woman. “I've paid for helping them before. I won't run after them this time.”

The woman sighed, rubbing her forehead. “And you wonder why they all dislike you so much.”

He looked away from her, his eyes flicking around the dark room beyond his cell. “Oh, I don't care for them, dearie,” he said, giggling. “They put me in this little pen and handed you the key.” He uncurled from the floor like a snake. “But one day soon, the bars will be gone and then...”

The girl looked at him with an idiotic soft expression on her face. “And then...” she echoed. “That'll be an interesting day, won't it?”

Rumpelstiltskin faded back into the darkness. “Run along,” he trilled. “You have your castle to yourself. I would enjoy it if I were you.”

The lady of Avonlea nodded, striding back towards the door. “Sleep well, Rumple,” she said, over her shoulder.

The door thudded closed, and the bolts rattled into place. In the damp chill of the air, the torch flickered, burning lower. The rat watched as Rumpelstiltskin crawled towards the bars, his fingertips tracing the metal.

“Not a becoming shape, dearie,” he cooed. “No need to hide.”

Regina let the magic ripple, rising up and stretching her bones. Transformation spells always did leave you feeling like you'd been twisted in knots. “I see your jailer has been giving you some personal attention,” she said.

His ugly face twisted. “The little maid thinks she has me tamed,” he said, baring his teeth. He looked beyond her, to the door. “Tamed. Fah. If the tables were turned, she wouldn't be treated so kindly.”

Regina chuckled. The stupid old imp had no idea that the foolish girl was halfway in love with him, though she couldn't imagine why. “If the tables were turned,” she said, “you would have to be out of here.”

Reptilian eyes fixed on her face. “So, so, so,” he agreed. “That's quite the puzzle, isn't it?” He leaned closer to the bars, power crackling around his fingers as he traced the metal. “But that's why you're here, your Majesty.” He grinned knowingly, and he wanted to slap him. “You need old Rumpelstiltskin to solve your riddle.”

“I don't need anything from you,” she snapped, but it was a lie. The dark curse was in her grasp, and she'd cast it, but it failed. Only the person who had constructed it could know the flaws. 

“Oh?” He widened his yes and skipped back, hands to his chest in horror. “Is this a more... personal desire? A little... itch you want me to scratch?”

Regina recoiled in revulsion. “Your curse,” she spat. “It doesn't work.”

Rumpelstiltskin snickered. “My curses always work,” he purred, learning against the bars, his hands splayed and blistering against the metal. He stuck out his lower lip in mocking dismay. “Has your magic failed you, dearie? Such a pity, but it happens when women age.”

Regina clenched her teeth. She wrenched the scroll out of her cloak, thrusting it at him. “Your curse demands a heart,” she said angrily. “I used a heart, but it didn't work. Your curse is flawed.”

One long finger curled out through the bars, drawing the end of the scroll closer. “Or perhaps,” he whispered, “your heart is.”

“You know that isn’t what I meant,” she snapped, “and you know it! No more games, Rumple! Tell me how to make it work!”

“If I tell you,” he said, slowly, and she knew what was coming next, “then what do I get in return?”

“What do you want?”

“Oh, now that’s a question,” he said, as if considering closely. There was a pregnant pause. “Comfort, I think,” he said at last. “A good life in your new land. That’s my price.”

“Fine,” she said, as it was easily achieved, “done.”

“I wasn’t finished!” he snapped, manic and too high, his hand wrapping hard around his bars, “There’s more you’ll have to grant for this tidbit, dearie.”

“What more could you need?” she demanded. His smile could have cut through bone.

“The maid,” he said, softly, crooningly, in a voice that made Regina’s skin crawl and her blood freeze in her veins. “The lady of Avonlea. I want her.”

“Your jailer?” Regina frowned, then the realisation hit and she smiled, slowly, that kinship they’d always had providing the answer: revenge, pure and simple. It was sweet, knowing that they were – as always – in the same frame of mind. “She’ll be tied to you, Rumple,” she promised, sweetly. “You’ll be free to use her as you will.”

“Free?” he asked, a carefully, a strange hope lighting his eyes, “To do as I wish?”

“She’ll be powerless, and you can have your vengeance,” Regina promised, for if there was one thing in this world she more than understood it was the drive for revenge, and the bloodlust that came with it. 

“Perfect,” Rumpelstiltskin purred. “Now, then, your answer is simple. You need the heart of the thing you love the most.”

The anger surged once more in Regina’s veins, and she threw out a hand in disgust, “I told you, I tried that! It’s all but written on the scroll and it didn’t work! I sacrificed my prized steed for this and it didn’t do me a moment’s good, so tell me what I have to do.”

“A horse?” Rumpelstiltskin roared, and a moment later he was upon her, scaled hand wrapped around her throat, mossy teeth inches from her face. “You think a horse’s heart will end this world? You think that could possibly be powerful enough?”

“Then what would be?” she asked, placid now that she’d finally broken his trilling, irksome calm. “What will suffice?”

“Dig deep,” he spat, then released her, “Foolish child. Find the source of all that emotion, the one thing in this world or any other you cherish the most, and rip the heart out of it. If, of course, yours will allow it.”

“My heart was lost long before you came along,” she muttered, Daniel’s face flashing before her eyes in a moment. Rumple didn’t know much about her life before him, and she never intended to share, but for a moment – just a moment – she had to wonder what her poor lost love would think of her now.

This is all for you, my love, she thought desperately, her eyes tight shut against Rumpelstiltskin and his mocking, leering gaze. 

“Then this should be child’s play,” he said, lightly: she wanted to stab him through his cold, heartless chest.

“No,” she murmured, as she turned from him and prepared to leave, “no, not child’s play. That’s what started all of this.”

She melted back into her mouse form and scurried away without a backwards glance; she didn’t hear whatever Rumpelstiltskin called after her, nor did she care.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Queen was unsatisfied.

Hardly a new sensation for her, but there was no evidence he had any part in Kathryn's miraculous reappearance. It was true he'd arranged to have the woman taken, but how could he be blamed if his staff failed to kill someone efficiently. 

Rumpelstiltskin watched her storm off, brimming with rage and vengeful thoughts.

He waited until she drove passed him, and raised his hand in a laconic wave.

The worst was over, and the Saviour would hunt him down if he didn't make himself scarce. Part of him wanted to find Rebecca, to excuse himself and explain that things weren't as they seemed, but he had to sever the links. It was a mercy for both of them. 

Instead, he went to his car and drove to the hospital.

Kathryn Nolan was safe there.

That said, she had been safe in the days she was missing. She'd had a small room, food, warmth, and shelter from Regina's more violent tendencies. That was more than the Saviour and her mother had.

He walked into the ward, approaching the patient in her bed. She was pale and her eyes were closed, but she opened them as he approached, awake and alert, and there was suspicion written on her face.

Rumpelstiltskin had never let her see who held her, but unlike many of the other residents of Storybrooke, Kathryn Nolan was a clever woman.

“Mr Gold.”

No frowns of puzzlement. No 'why are you here' or 'what do you want'. Just a flat statement of his name.

He paused by the edge of the bed, hands resting on his cane.

“Mrs Nolan. I hope you are quite recovered from your ordeal.”

She was watching him closely, guardedly. He knew he had no real reason to be there, and she knew it too, but he was there, and he knew she had to suspect why. He had a reputation after all, for solving problems, and who else in town would abduct anyone.

“Apart from rising from the dead?” she said.

He shifted his hands, one over the other. “Death wasn't the intent, it seems. Not on this occasion.”

“So I noticed,” she murmured. “Though everyone seems to think it was. But not you.”

He should never have come, he knew it, but Kathryn Nolan had looked after Rebecca better than almost anyone else in town. Kathryn Nolan – and Princess Abigail – was a worthy friend, a good person, and if anyone deserved respect and gratitude, it was her. 

“Indeed,” he murmured. “As unpleasant as abduction was, I hope it was a far more favourable result.”

She tilted her head, watching him, then motioned him closer. “I don't know why it happened,” she said quietly. “I don't know why anyone would want to hurt me or Mary Margaret or David that way.”

“I-”

“Let me finish,” she said with the quiet steel of a true noble. “I don't know why someone would want to see me dead. I don't know why someone would keep me alive in spite of them. But I do want them to know I'm grateful.”

He stared at her, uncertain. “Life is always considered better than death,” he said, more curtly than he intended.

To his astonishment, she covered his hands on the handle of his cane. “It really is,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

He pulled back, wary. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Of course you don't,” she murmured, “and I don't plan to tell anyone. I'm alive. Mary Margaret is free. That's all anyone needs to know.”

He licked his lips, nodded, and walked away. Coming to the hospital was a stupid, stupid mistake. The Queen already suspected, but he had practically signed a banner, confessing his guilt by visiting, and Kathryn Nolan now knew for certain of his involvement.

He strode towards the door, his hand tight on the cane. People stepped aside for him. They always did. Even now they feared him. He brushed past nurses, doctors, visitors, staff, furious at his own false gallantry.

“Wait.” 

That voice brought him up short.

He turned, a knot settling in his chest. Rebecca was standing there, outside the doors that led into Kathryn's ward. Her hand was resting on the doorframe, and she looked puzzled, not angry.

“Rebecca.”

He meant to say her name, nothing more, but she was there, and she was looking at him without anger or loathing.

She approached him. “You visited Kathryn.”

“She's your friend,” he said, his heart drumming against his ribs. “I wanted to see for myself that she was well. Especially since I defended the person accused of murdering her.”

She was close, in front of him, and laid a small hand on his arm. “Don't lie to me, Alistair.”

All the words dried up in his throat and he looked down at her hand. What could he say? How could he deny anything when she was looking at him? Touching him? When the bars were gone and they were close and she didn't hate him?

He remained silent, but covered her hand with his. 

“I don't understand what's happening here,” she said in a whisper. “I don't. But I can see it's something bigger than anyone realised.” She turned her hand under his and briefly squeezed his fingers. “If you kept her safe, thank you.”

He raised his eyes to hers. “I did it for you,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Her lips brushed his cheek and her hand tightened on his. He felt the curve of her belly against his, the warmth of her. “Thank you,” she whispered, and she was gone, the sweetness of her perfume lingering.

Rumpelstiltskin remembered what it was to breathe as he turned back and made his way out of the hospital.


End file.
